


Giants Of The Earth

by fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn



Series: Giants of the Earth [2]
Category: Iron Giant (1999), Transformers, Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen, Hatchlings, Robots, Sparklings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 200,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How exactly do you hide a giant robot for fifty years?  Very, very carefully ....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author notes: canon-wise, this is a mashup between the first three Bayverse movies and G1. Most of the characterizations will be taken from G1--especially Optimus, who is *not* the 'kill 'em all, let Primus sort 'em out' character he is in the movies. Most of the onscreen 'deaths' of Decepticons and Autobots have also fallen victim to authorial override--in my fanon, Cybertronians are a helluva lot tougher than most humans realize, and that it takes more than a little dismemberment to permanently offline them. Anything short of total disintegration/spark dissolution can be repaired given enough time and materials. Of course, whether or not certain Decepticons would choose to do so for their fallen comrades is entirely dependant on what they would get out of it. So previously 'dead' characters will make their reappearance. (... though I'm still trying to figure out a way to get my Ironhide back. ;__; )
> 
> I apologize for any canon-breakage and my flimsy scientific handwavium in advance--Wikipedia is my friend, but it does not know all. And for those out there not familiar with the awesomeness that is the Iron Giant, you can check out the trailer [ here](http://youtu.be/OTnu-cGP17w). I think it goes without saying that this fic will contain spoilers. :)
> 
> Now officially co-authored by Fractalserpent as of Chapter 13! :D And it probably goes without saying, but this story is NOT compliant with the fourth movie (Transformers: Age of Extinction).

“So ... what do we know about this guy?” Sam asked, flipping through the file folder as he hurried to catch up to Lennox. The hallway was painted in military-grade beige and white, with scuffmarks on the walls and a tiled floor that had seen better days, and he knew from experience that the conference room wasn’t likely to be much more comfortable. That alone told Sam that whoever they were there to meet wasn’t deemed important enough by the brass to merit special treatment. Yet he was still important enough for the USAF to fly halfway around the world to Diego Garcia, just to have this meeting.

Sam had to wonder about the military’s priorities, sometimes.

The NEST commander shrugged, hands in his pockets as he waited for Sam outside the conference room door. He was in the standard combat uniform, not service dress; another sign about the casual nature of this particular interview. “Not much--got a call at oh-dark-thirty and told to go talk to this guy; apparently he’s got some intel on some Cybertronian technology hidden here on Earth. He’s an American civilian, I know that much.”

“American--and they flew him all the way out here just to find out what he knows?” Sam said skeptically. “It must be something important, whatever it is.” Which then begged the question of exactly why *they* were the ones talking to him, instead of the CIA. Or the FBI, or Sector 7--or whatever had replaced Sector 7. Sector 7 and a half? Sector We’re-Not-Really-7-More-Like-An-8?

“Who knows?” Lennox tilted his head towards the room. “Guess that’s what we’re here to find out. Shall we?”

“Just a sec.” Sam fiddled with the tiny bluetooth headset hooked over his ear. “You still with us, Optimus?”

 _//I am receiving you just fine, Sam.//_ No matter how many times he did this, hearing Optimus’ resonant voice in his ear--made only slightly tinny by the limitations of the headset--never got old. It was like having a shoulder angel--albeit one of the large, well-armed and alien variety.

 _Optimus is my co-pilot,_ Sam thought to himself--not for the first time--and did his best not to snigger. Ambassador-consultant-liason-whatevers to the military did not giggle before important meetings. At least, he was pretty sure they didn’t.

“We’re good,” he told Lennox, giving him the thumbs up. The older man nodded, and opened the door.

 

********

 

The man waiting for them was nothing like Sam had expected. Admittedly he hadn’t been given a chance to do more than glance over the dossier that someone had shoved at him, but still, he’d expected someone a little less ... ordinary. Someone ex-military, maybe, or a scientist. Or maybe a wild-eyed conspiracy theorist, the kind who forgot to bathe and wrote manifestos, if you wanted to get really interesting.

The man sitting on the other side of the table, hands curled around a styrofoam coffee cup, wasn’t any of those things. He wore a button-down shirt, a tie, and an old-fashioned suit jacket, a little worn on the elbows and wrinkled from travel. He looked more like Sam’s grandfather than anything--elderly, a little stooped, and obviously tired.

Glancing over at Lennox, Sam took the initiative, walking over to pull out a chair on the opposite side of the table. Politicians he knew how to handle. Military personnel he mostly left to Lennox. He wasn’t about to interrogate the old man in front of him, Simmons-style, so what was he supposed to do?

“Um ... hi.” _Great opener, genius. Let’s try to at least act like what we know what we’re doing._ Offering his hand to shake, he decided introductions were the safest bet. “This is Colonel Lennox, commander of NEST, and I’m Sam Witwicky, human liason to the Autobots.” Which was a job title that he’d never, ever be able to use on any resume. Not that it mattered. He’d pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t likely to have a ‘normal’ job ever again anyway. Especially considering what had happened with his last one. “I hear you wanted to talk to us, Mr.--?”

“Hughes,” the man said, half-standing to shake Sam’s hand briefly, then Lennox’s. If he was surprised at Sam’s relative youth, he didn’t show it. “I remember you. You were the kid the robots were looking for a few years back, right?”

Sam grimaced. Get your picture on an alien ‘Most Wanted’ poster and broadcast over every single media outlet in the world, and suddenly you’re famous. Yet another thing he could thank the Decepticons for. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Hughes gave him a wry look, oddly kind under the wrinkles and the weariness. “My sympathies.”

“Thanks. Part of the job, I’m afraid,” Sam said easily, used to dismissing it as if it were nothing important. Like echoes of fire and the memory of Megatron’s snarl-- _‘I can smell you, BOY’_ \--didn’t still wake him up screaming sometimes.

Lennox shifted, slinging his arm over the back of his chair. “You have quite a bit of clout, Mr. Hughes,” he observed neutrally. “Enough to get yourself flown all the way out here just to talk to us. General Morshower even vouched for you; said this was important.”

Hughes gave them another of those wry, tired smiles. “No clout, Colonel. I’m a nobody important, just a retired high school teacher who was stubborn enough to camp out on your general’s doorstep. It took me almost a year before I could get anyone to listen, much less take me seriously. And the only reason I got even that far was because I--well, I knew a friend of his, once.” He looked down at the coffee cup cradled in his hands, taking a deep breath. In that moment, Sam realized that Hughes wasn’t just jet-lagged. He was scared. But of what?

Hughes lifted his head and continued, “I don’t mean any disrespect, sir--to either of you--but I didn’t come here to talk to you. I came here to talk to your robots. The--Autobots.”

*That* made Lennox’s eyebrows go up. He glanced over at Sam, but Optimus stayed silent, and all Sam could do is give him a helpless shrug. Lennox turned his attention back to their guest, leaning forward and folding his arms on the table. “Mr. Hughes, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but this is a military base. This is not some kind of zoo or circus sideshow where people can come to gawk at the aliens. The fact that the Autobots even *exist* was highly classified information up until a few years ago.”

Classified until the Decepticons decided to occupy and lay waste to downtown Chicago, Sam mentally translated. Hard to keep the existence of giant alien robots classified when they kept on destroying national landmarks and massacring large swathes of your population.

“Colonel,” Hughes said quietly, “I can assure you that ‘gawking’ is the last thing on my mind.” He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “Honestly, I’ve been arguing with myself about whether I should do this for years. And I would love to ask you all sorts of questions about these ‘Autobots’ of yours. But let’s be realistic; you have no reason to tell me the truth, and every reason to lie.” He gave them both a level look, and oddly enough, there was no anger in his voice as he continued.

“So I’ll put my cards on the table. Yes, I have a secret, and yes, it’s about something alien. Something some people would say is dangerous. But before I hand over that secret to you, I need to know if I can trust you. If I can trust *them*. Or whether they’re just like the other ones, the ones who killed all those innocent people.” His face hardened into stubborn lines. “Because if they are … or if they’re just some kind of--of robot weapon for the military--then you’re not getting a single damn word out of me, no matter what.”

Despite himself, Sam was impressed. Hughes’ stubbornness was either very brave or very stupid, considering that right now the man was stuck on a base a thousand miles from anywhere, surrounded by people who could make him disappear faster than you could say ‘Guatanamo’, if they really, really felt like it.

Lennox didn’t look all that intimidated. He did look more than a little exasperated, however, as he leaned back in his chair and gave Sam a Look. It was one Sam was becoming quite familiar with--the one that said, _‘You’re the Autobot liason. So liase already.’_

Sam considered his options--then did what any self-respecting bureaucrat would do. He kicked it up the chain of command.

“Optimus?” he said, looking up at the black globe of the security camera in the corner. Hughes blinked, glancing over his shoulder in confusion as if he expected to see whoever Sam was talking to.

There was a momentary pause. Then Optimus answered, _//I do not believe he means us any harm. He obviously believes the information he carries is important; if Colonel Lennox is in agreement, I am willing to meet with him.//_

“All right.” Sam pushed back from the table, standing up. “You’re in luck, Mr. Hughes. Optimus says he’s willing to talk.” He glanced over at Lennox. “With your permission, Colonel?”

Lennox frowned, but nodded. He didn’t much like ultimatums, but it wasn’t as if the man hadn’t been background checked, searched, and scanned to within an inch of his life before ever setting foot on base. If this was some kind of trap, they’d just have to find out the hard way, just like they always did. Pushing to his feet, he headed for the door. “Follow me, Mr. Hughes.”

It wasn’t far to the main hangar; one of several that had been converted for combined Autobot/human occupancy. The tropical heat outside was a slap in the face after the air-conditioned cool of the administrative building, and Sam kept an eye on Hughes. He’d been here long enough that it didn’t bother him, but the older man was obviously not used to it, and heatstroke was nothing to play around with. The main bay doors were closed, so Sam led them around to one of the human-sized entrances, swiping his security badge and pressing a palm against a panel to disengage the biometric lock.

Inside, the hangar was a well-lit, cavernous space filled with scaffolding, communications equipment, assorted human personnel--and Optimus Prime.

This spiel, at least, Sam had down pat. “Mr. Hughes, I’d like you to meet Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots. Optimus, this is Mr. Hughes.” He loved this part: watching the awe and wonder on people’s faces as they came face-to-face with a thirty-foot tall alien living legend for the very first time.

“It is an honor, Mr. Hughes,” Optimus rumbled, turning to face them and inclining his head with grave courtesy.

Nonplussed, Hughes adjusted his glasses, squinting up at the Autobot leader. “Huh.” He glanced over at Sam. “No offense, but ... I thought he’d be taller.”


	2. Chapter 2

“So what do you think, Bee?” Sam asked, lounging in the driver’s seat. The cool thing about riding in a sentient Camaro--well, one of them, anyway--was that long road trips got a lot more bearable when you could literally let the car do the driving. “Do you think this guy might be one of yours?”

The radio crackled to life, fuzzing through a brief burst of static before settling into a steady signal. “Hard to say,” Bumblebee said thoughtfully. Ratchet had finally managed to repair enough of Bumblebee’s vocal processors to allow the yellow scout to speak without relying on pieced-together audio clips and song lyrics. Talking, however, still took effort, and the resulting voice was underlaid by a buzzing rasp, occasionally warbling at the edges of the words with modulations Bumblebee couldn’t quite control. Still, Sam wasn’t going to look a gift Autobot in the mouth, so to speak; while he and Bee had understood each other well enough before, it felt great to just … talk to his friend. About anything. “Mr. Hughes’ description does not fit any frame-model I’m familiar with, but given how often we modify ourselves to adapt to different environments, that doesn’t eliminate the possibility.”

Sam nodded, and stretched a bit, watching the forested landscape whip by. It was barely September, but this far north the leaves had already begun to turn, splashing swathes of trees with vivid spots of yellow and red. The weather had stayed clear, thankfully, with the sun staving off an early frost, though to Sam’s mind that didn’t help much. He was a California boy. Compared to the tropical atoll that they’d just come from, even a warm Maine autumn was really damn chilly as far as he was concerned, no matter what anyone said.

Against the dark backdrop of trees, their little convoy certainly stood out. Optimus alone might not have gotten much more than a second glance here and there. Even with his vivid red and blue paint job, there were enough truckers on the back roads of rural Maine to allow the Autobot leader to blend in. But once you added in a vivid yellow Camaro, another bright yellow-green medic unit, an unmarked and obviously-military Humvee, plus a black and white police cruiser (with Autobot markings on the side, not Decepticon, thank god--it had taken Sam quite a while before he stopped jumping every time he got a glance at Prowl’s chosen alt--well, you had a combination guaranteed to cause rubbernecking no matter where they went.

“Fifty years,” Sam mused out loud. “Even after how we found Jetfire, it’s hard to believe. How the heck do you hide a giant alien robot for *fifty years*?”

*******

_(Two weeks earlier)_

Now firmly ensconced on the scaffolded communications platform that allowed him to be eye-to-eye (or rather, eye-to-optic) with Optimus, Hughes had settled himself into a chair with a complete disregard of the military personnel around him and was regarding the Autobot leader with undisguised fascination. “I apologize, Mr.--er, Prime? I meant no offense. It’s just that you don’t look quite like what I’d expected.”

“No offense taken,” Optimus said graciously, the mobile plates that made up his face shifting upwards in an expression of wry amusement. “I find I am tall enough for most purposes, after all. And ‘Prime’ is actually a title. Please, call me Optimus.”

“All right--Optimus it is.” Hughes’ eyes were bright, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit afraid, leaning forward a bit in his enthusiasm. And while Sam was glad he didn’t have to worry about the elderly man having a heart attack at the sight of an Autobot, the fact that he wasn’t even *nervous* was just plain weird. Even the most enthusiastic scientist-types were more than a little wary around Cybertronians, if for no other reason than the fact that meeting giant aliens tended to drive home the point how small and squishable humans were in comparison.

“So you really are … people, then,” Hughes was saying. “Not some military experiment or anything. And you’re from another planet?”

“Yes.” Optimus inclined his head in acknowledgment, just as courteous in the face of a single man’s curiosity as he was when dealing with human heads of state. “Our home planet is called Cybertron, and we are indeed fully sentient--autonomous cybernetic organisms, in your language. We arrived here on Earth only recently, but have found allies amongst those of your military in our fight against the Decepticons.” He tilted his head to Lennox, who raised a newly acquired cup of coffee in acknowledgement.

“Decepticons.” Some of Hughes’ enthusiasm visibly dimmed. “Those are … the others. The ones that destroyed Chicago. They’re also from your planet?”

“I am afraid so,” Optimus replied, his voice heavy with regret. “It was never our intention to embroil Earth in our war, but circumstances dictated otherwise. And now that the Decepticons are here, they are unlikely to leave--not while Earth still has energy resources that they might plunder. So we remain as well, in order to stop them and protect this planet.”

“I see … I think.” Hughes frowned a little. “But you said that you’d only arrived recently? The others, too?”

“That is correct. Most of us have been here less than ten of your solar years. We have recently discovered that there were … earlier encounters, but none quite so overt.”

“Mr. Hughes,” Lennox put in, “We’ve done what you asked, and while I’m sure Optimus would be happy to answer any questions you have, we can probably give you the answers you want a lot faster if you tell us what you’re looking for.” Or to put it less politely: they’d been patient long enough. If Hughes wanted to continue to have access to the Autobots, he needed to come clean.

Hughes gave them a sidelong look, his mouth quirking into a wry smile. “Time to shit or get off the pot, eh, Colonel?”

Sam choked a little, and Optimus tilted his head quizzically. Lennox unbent enough to give the older man a sidelong grin. “You could say that.”

“You’re right, of course. I could dance around this for weeks, but it wouldn’t do anyone any good.” Hughes turned back to face Optimus, squaring his shoulders. “I came all this way because I needed to meet you. To see if they were telling the truth about the Autobots, and if they were …” he drew in a deep breath, “... then to ask you to help my friend.”

 _The plot thickens._ “Your friend?” Sam asked. He had a sudden suspicion he knew where this was going ....

“Yeah.” Hughes glanced over at Lennox. “It’s a bit of a story, I’m afraid, so bear with me. It all happened back in ‘57--before your time. Way before his.” He jerked a thumb at Sam in illustration. “ You ever hear about the Rockwell Incident?” At the colonel’s headshake, he snorted. “Still too classified even for you guys, I guess.”

He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Rockwell is a little town in Maine; it’s where I was born and raised. Nothing really special about it, except that it’s where he crashed, just off the coast.” He looked up at Optimus. “These guys don’t really know what it was like back then, but you have to understand. Everyone was afraid. Afraid of the communists, the Russians, Sputnik, the bomb … I knew a space robot would freak them out, even if he was friendly.” He added defiantly, “And he was. He didn’t want to hurt anybody.”

“I believe you,” Optimus said gently. “What was his name?”

Hughes sighed. “I don’t know. He couldn’t remember anything, not his name or where he came from. I called him ‘Giant’.” Catching sight of Lennox’s expression, he shrugged. “Hey, I was twelve.”

“Did he look anything like Optimus?” Lennox asked, letting that slide. “Or have any symbols on him? Especially either of these?” Opening up an image file on a nearby laptop, he showed the other man the Autobot and Decepticon insignias. Hughes barely glanced at it before shaking his head.

“That’s just it. He didn’t have any symbols at all. He was just bare metal. And he really didn’t look anything like you, sir, other than you both being robots, anyway,” he told Optimus. “I don’t even know if he’s really one of your people. All I know is that you’re both from space, and you’re both alien. I don’t want him dragged into a war, but--I’m not as young as I used to be.” Hughes looked down at his hands. “I can’t protect him forever.”

“Protect him?” Sam asked. “From the Decepticons?”

“From them too, but ... mostly from us. Humans, I mean.”

A flash of memory--Bumblebee, half-frozen, strapped down to a concrete block and keening in pain--and Sam suddenly understood why Hughes was afraid. Not for himself, but for his friend. “What happened?” he asked softly.

“You have to understand, he didn’t know anything. He was like a baby. Well, he knew how to walk, and eat--that’s how I found him, he kept taking bites out of things--but not much else in the beginning. I taught him English, sort of. Once I figured out he wasn’t going to eat *me*, anyway.” Hughes smiled a bit at the memory. “He learned fast, though.”

He looked up again, and this time his attention was on Sam. “I don’t know if he was always like that or if something had happened to make him that way. But I know he never wanted to hurt anyone. I managed to keep him hidden for a while, but--” Hughes sighed. “I was twelve. And you can’t exactly hide a giant robot under your bed.”

“Believe me, I know the feeling,” Sam said, honestly sympathetic.

“Yeah. Anyway, there was this government agent. Mansley, his name was; I don’t even remember what department he said he worked for. But once he found out about the Giant ... as soon as he got proof, he called in the army.” Even after fifty years, the bitterness was clear.

“They tried to capture him?” Lennox asked, narrow-eyed. Did they even *have* anything back in the fifties that could have disabled an Autobot? Maybe if it had been one of the smaller ones ….

“Capture him? They tried to *kill* him! They didn’t care who or what he was, not once Mansley had made his report. All they saw was a threat to ‘national security’.” Hughes made mocking air quotes around the words with his fingers, then curled them into fists in his lap.

“Was he badly damaged?” Optimus asked. His compassion for the lost mech was obvious, even if Sam was sure Optimus had asked for strategic reasons as well. Still, he’d be willing to bet good money that Optimus had opened a private channel to Ratchet already. An injured mech was an injured mech. Decepticon or Autobot, it didn’t matter--not to Ratchet, and not to Optimus.

“I--everyone thought he was dead,” Hughes confessed. He looked up at Optimus. “I don’t know how much you know about Earth weapons. Have they told you about our nukes? Nuclear missiles, I mean?”

Sam stiffened, and Lennox damn near dropped his coffee. “You’re kidding. They tried to drop a *nuke* on him? On American soil? That’s insane!”

Hughes was ramrod straight, and met Lennox’s disbelief without flinching. “Yeah. They did. They were willing to wipe out our whole town and poison a good part of Maine, just to kill him.” He sighed, shoving a hand through graying hair. “I was never quite sure how it happened. I was--with the Giant at the time. The whole thing was the mother of all fuckups; everyone was on a hair trigger, the Giant had already destroyed a few tanks, nothing else they tried to shoot him with had worked, Mansley was freaking out … and somehow the missile got launched.”

“I do know of Earth’s nuclear weapons, Mr. Hughes,” Optimus said quietly. The Autobots’ reconnaissance had been quite thorough, even without resorting to the brute force invasions of the military networks that the Decepticons had favored. “Such a weapon would be enough to destroy one of us if we were close enough to the epicenter, though the resulting damage to any nearby humans would be catastrophic.”

“Yeah. It would have been.” Hughes’ voice was very quiet.

“Since Maine is still with us and not irradiated, I’m assuming something happened?” Sam asked. There was always the possibility that Hughes was a nut and making all this up, but … it was just unbelievable enough to be true. And given his own experience with unbelievable stories over the last few years, something told him Hughes was being terrifyingly honest.

“You could say that.” Hughes looked up, ignoring the humans to meet Optimus’ electric blue gaze. “The Giant--he saved us. All of us. Once he knew what it meant, that we were all going to die … he went after the missile. Kept it from falling--made sure it exploded out in space.” His voice was hoarse and unsteady, but he forced out the words anyway. “He sacrificed himself to save all of us.”

Hughes took an unsteady breath, visibly shaking himself out of the memory. “I thought he’d died for me. For us. They couldn’t find anything afterward. Just one little piece. But then … well, it’s complicated. Apparently he hadn’t been destroyed. Just really badly hurt. It took a long time--almost a year and a half--but somehow, he managed to find his way back.”

Optimus’ optics had widened a bit at that revelation, though Sam noted he didn’t look completely surprised. Just … thoughtful.

Lennox on the other hand, was obviously a bit taken aback. “Seriously?” he asked Optimus. “You’re seriously telling me that one of your guys could take a *nuke* in the kisser and walk away from it?”

“Most of us? No, Colonel,” Optimus answered gravely. “Even I would sustain critical damage in the face of such a weapon--more than I could repair on my own. But I have known other mechs, ones designed for deep-space exploration, for example, with armor or shielding capabilities that might have been able to withstand such a blast. So it is not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“Daaamn,” Lennox said, impressed in spite of himself. He glanced over to Hughes. “Your friend is one damn lucky robot, Mr. Hughes.”

Hughes gave him a crooked smile. “For a certain given definition of ‘luck’, anyway,” he replied. “I couldn’t believe it myself, to tell the truth. I’d hoped, but .... I honestly never thought I’d see him again. We managed to keep him away from the towns after that; a few other people knew about him, of course, but after what the army had done? Well, everyone knew what he’d done for us. No one was going to be calling the government a second time. He was one of ours now.”

“But I think surviving all that, and coming back, it must have done something. Hurt him somehow, inside where we couldn’t see. He was with me for about five years, and he seemed the same as he ever was.” Hughes smiled a little, remembering. “Let me tell you, having a giant robot as a friend? Best present any boy could ever ask for.”

“But then one day I went out to meet him, and he was just--sitting there. He wouldn’t wake up, no matter what we did.” He wrapped his hands around each other, knuckles white against the weathered skin. “For a while I was afraid he might be dead.” The pain in his voice was almost palpable, and Sam couldn’t help but think of Bumblebee. There was a painful knot in his chest at the thought of going out to the garage one day, only to find his friend was just ... gone. Offline, with no Ratchet to call, no way to know if he were dead or only sleeping … what would he have done, faced with something like that? Left with nothing but a heap of inert metal that looked like the corpse of his best friend?

“We didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t anyone we could could trust to help him. After a while, I did manage to figure out that he was still giving off an energy signature.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Alien encounters are a wonderful incentive to turn into a science geek, I guess. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what it was--but it was there. It was *something*. So we hid him away, made sure the government couldn’t find him. I figured the least I could do was protect him until he woke up.”

“But he never did?” Sam asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer.

Hughes shook his head. “No. He never did. It’s been fifty years; I’d almost given up hope. But then you guys came.” His gaze never wavered from Optimus. “After the attacks, I saw the news; saw the pictures of the others. The ... Decepticons? And then I heard about your people, the ones who fought them. For a long time I wasn’t sure what to think, but after a while, I knew I had to take the chance. There just isn’t anyone else.”

He took a deep breath. “Please, Optimus. I don’t know if he’s one of your people, or something else, but he deserves better than this. Please. Can you help me?”

“I am humbled by your loyalty, Mr. Hughes. I assure you, we will do all in our power to help you,” Optimus said gravely. He glanced over to where Sam and Lennox were waiting; the colonel gave him a tight nod. He felt the same way Optimus did about leaving people behind. “Please tell us where he is. Colonel Lennox will begin making arrangements for transport, and I give you my word: the Autobots will do our best to ensure you are reunited with your friend once again.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: If this chapter reads like an episode of 'House', I blame Ratchet. Ratchet-vision took over and there was no stopping the train after that. Dr. Ratchet, M.D.--or is that C.D.? Warning: possibly incoherent technobabble ahead!

_(Present Day)_

 

The barn was set back against the trees, at the end of a winding gravel lane that obviously hadn’t been used in some time. Originally painted red and white, the barn’s colors had been muted by time and weather, white trim fading to graying wood, the stone and concrete of the foundation surrounded by brushy knee-high grass. A battered, slowly-rusting pickup and an old tractor stood vigil nearby, equally overgrown; silent companions, sturdy and unpretentious.

As the rest of the Autobot convoy pulled into the weedy turnaround in front of the barn, Ratchet opened his passenger-side door, letting Hughes get out first. The elderly human swung down from Ratchet’s interior with the practiced ease of a man used to driving farm machinery, stepping away to allow the medic to transform. “The old barn was already in bad shape when he arrived,” he remarked, continuing their conversation. “Falling part, really. So after a couple of years, we had this one built for him to sleep in, further back from the the road.” He paused, obviously thinking. “You know, I never really thought about that before. Whether that was normal, I mean. Do you guys sleep?”

Ratchet transformed, his structure reconfiguring smoothly from alt-mode, bright yellow armor twisting apart at the pivot points as he straightened up, flexing hands in a habitual systems check. “We do recharge from time to time, but it is a different process than organic ‘sleep’. It is mostly an energy conservation and self-repair mechanism; we do not risk erratic functioning or processing crashes by abstaining the way humans do.” Pausing in order to do a few more passive scans of the area, he continued, “Your friend. He ‘slept’ often?”

Hughes nodded, looking worried. “Just as much as I did. Is that a bad sign?”

Ratchet shrugged. “Hard to say. It could be, if he were a Cybertronian. Or it simply could be the result of low energy levels. Either way, I’ll know more once I have a look at him.” Assuming the human had told the truth; so far his scans weren’t picking up anything other than his fellow Autobots. Even if the strange mech was in complete stasis lock, he should be getting *something*. A spark-echo, the flutter of an EM field … some indicator of mechanoid life, no matter how small. A bit perturbed, he opened a channel to the others.

_//I’m not picking up any life-signs, Optimus. Just the usual organic clutter. Bumblebee? Prowl?//_

The other Autobots had just finished transforming, standing upright. Optimus was fully as tall as the barn itself, while Prowl and Ratchet--and Bumblebee, of course--were significantly shorter. Which was probably a good thing, considering that their goal lay inside. Human structures, like their inhabitants, could be ridiculously fragile.

Bumblebee shook his head as he straightened, sending a firm and wordless negative over the channel, a simple _null data/no information found_. Prowl’s reply was less immediate, and when it came, it had reservations layered into his negative-- _no primary data found/anomalous tangential information._

 _//I am picking up a great deal of nonliving metal within this structure,//_ Prowl clarified. _//More than can be accounted for by human machinery.//_ Meticulous as always, the tactician presented the data without any associated conclusions, and Ratchet had to suppress an instinctive ripple of dismay, keeping it isolated from the others. Prowl’s data could mean nothing at all; or it could mean that the mech they had come for was already long past saving. Either way, making assumptions before even seeing the patient was a rookie mistake, he reminded himself, and firmly shunted his misgivings to one side.

“Wow … I know you guys do that all the time, but that just never gets old,” Hughes remarked as he watched the Autobots transform. Sam and Lennox’s team joined him, and Sam grinned.

“Tell me about it.” He nodded at the barn. “This is the place?”

“Yep.” Hughes headed for the main barn doors; they had been chained shut, a formidable combination padlock securing the whole thing together--and judging from the liberal amount of rust on both chain and lock, hadn’t been opened in some time. The chain was far thicker than Ratchet had seen humans use elsewhere, but still seemed incredibly flimsy. Any of the Autobots would have able to twist it apart with their bare hands, and even a sufficiently determined human could sever it, given the right cutting tools. From the slightly embarrassed expression on Hughes’ face, he apparently knew it as well. “Not very secure, I know. This is mostly to keep any punk kids out,” Hughes said apologetically as he dialed in the combination. “Couldn’t afford anything more subtle, and I couldn’t really put anything more fancy on it without making people wonder exactly what it was I was keeping in here.” The lock clicked open, and he began to unwind the heavy chain from the door handles. Then he hesitated.

“You guys do remember what I said, right?” Hughes said, looking over at Lennox and the two other NEST team members. Ratchet couldn’t help but find it ironic; they had apparently found the one human on the entire planet that seemed to trust the Autobots more than their own military. “No weapons. No matter what happens.”

“We understand, Mr. Hughes,” Lennox said reassuringly. Ratchet suppressed a snort. NEST was a chip off the old Ironhide block, with a firm belief in the idea of peace through superior firepower. All the warnings in the world wouldn’t keep them from acting if there really was some kind of amnesiac Decepticon in that barn and things dropped in the pot. Personally, Ratchet would have preferred they stayed behind; the only reason they were even there was because NEST’s human superiors had insisted on at least a nominal military presence to keep an eye on the retrieval.

“ … all right then. Good.” It was obvious that Hughes didn’t entirely believe them, but there was only so much the human could do. Looking at the doors, he scrubbed a hand through graying hair and gave Ratchet an inquiring look. “Er--normally I have to go fire up the tractor to pull these open. You think you guys can give me a hand?” A bit surprised, Ratchet glanced over at Prowl and Optimus. The barn doors were oversized, to be sure, but surely the human wasn’t that feeble? Why would you build a door you couldn’t open?

“Of course, Mr. Hughes,” Optimus said, nodding at the others. Prowl stepped forward, inserting the tips of his metal fingers around the metal-sheathed edge of one door, and tugged with delicate care. The wood groaned, but the door didn’t budge. There was a confused murmuring from their human contingent. _What the hell …?_

Prowl tilted his head, scanning the structure of the doors more closely. Then, resetting his feet, he pulled with a great deal more force. The door swung open with a protesting squeal, and the reason for Hughes’ request became obvious: almost the entire inside of the barn door was covered in metal plating.

The open channel lit up with belated realization, and Ratchet gave a low thrum of approval. _//Clever human, using native materials to mask energy signatures.//_

“What is all this?” Sam asked, moving forward to knock on one of the plates with his knuckles.

“Lead,” Hughes said with a certain amount of satisfaction. “Couldn’t do the whole barn, unfortunately, mostly just the walls and extra concrete for the foundation--but I tried to put up enough to cut down on any residual radiation and the like.” Bumblebee had already moved to pull the other door open, revealing--even more metal?

Ratchet blinked. _//Well, at least this answers why we were picking up on nonliving metal.//_ There were stacks of rebar, coils of wire, piles of body panels from a thousand different human vehicles … it was a junkyard in miniature. Bending over to peer into the darkened interior of the barn, Ratchet wasn’t sure whether to be appalled or impressed--had the human been stockpiling parts for repairs? If so, this took pack-ratting to a whole new level. Was that a stack of *I-beams* against the wall? “Is this more camouflage, then?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“All this? Well, some of it, I suppose,” Hughes said easily, nodding his thanks to Prowl and Bumblebee before heading in. “You guys might have to shove some of this out of the way, sorry ‘bout that--guess I got a little overzealous.” Glancing back at Ratchet, he continued, “Mostly, though, I just thought he’d be hungry when he woke up.”

Prowl, already ducking his head to enter the barn, froze in mid-step. “Hungry?” he asked. The open channel flickered with _intrigue/worry/interest_ as the four Autobots shared interlinked data, collating for all known species of metal-eaters. There were quite a few, ranging from benign to parasitic to predatory, though nearly all were non-sentient.

“Your friend is a metallivore?” Ratchet said, frowning. He stepped into the barn, picking his way through the piles of metal and giving Prowl an impatient rap to get the other Autobot moving again. “He actually consumes metal?”

“Yeah, he does.” Hughes said, sounding surprised. “You mean you guys don’t?”

“Only in trace amounts; we subsist off of energon,” Ratchet replied absently, shoving a few enormous spools of cabled wire out of his way with one foot. The path Hughes was following was clear enough, and reasonably wide ... for a human. Lennox and the others were certainly having no problems navigating; the Autobots, however, were finding it slower going.

“Huh. Strange.” After a moment’s consideration, the human shrugged. “Don’t worry. I don’t think he’d ever eat anything alive, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

For some reason, Ratchet didn’t find that very reassuring.

Hughes picked his way over to one wall, fumbling in the dark for a moment before finding the switch. “Well … here he is.” Cobwebbed fluorescent lights stuttered to life overhead, and Autobots and humans alike saw the barn’s original occupant for the first time.

 _//Well, he certainly lives up to his name,//_ Ratchet sent, amused. How the heck had Hughes ever convinced a mech that size to fit in here in the first place?

Sam whistled, impressed. “Wow ... you weren’t kidding when you said he was big!” Even seated, the Giant still overtopped Bumblebee by a decent margin, his helm and chassis taller than either Prowl or Ratchet. The massive gunmetal-gray form took up almost the entire back wall of the barn, and was seated in an oddly humanlike pose, arms folded and dangling over bended knees, head sunk down against the chest, optics shuttered and dark. For some reason an enormous tarp had been draped over him, tucked in behind his shoulders like a blanket, covering him from shoulders to knees. It only reinforced the impression that the Giant was sleeping, Ratchet had to admit. Admittedly, a fifty-year recharge was probably a bit excessive, at least by human standards, but still ….

Ratchet picked his way further into the open area where the Giant sat, looking the big mech over. Bumblebee and Prowl weren’t far behind, while Optimus, hampered by his greater size, waited patiently on one knee at the barn door, his head tilted to take in the scene.

“Okay, is it just me, or does this guy look nothing at all like you guys?” Lennox asked. Someone had to get the obvious out of the way, apparently. Lennox was knowledgeable enough about Cybertronians to be familiar with mechs of both Autobot and Decepticon make, as well as the standard protoforms from the new arrivals, and Ratchet had to admit this mech looked nothing like anything any of the humans had ever seen before. Compared to most Cybertronians, he was extremely primitive in structure; bulky, barrel-chested, with a simple cylindrical head and no distinct facial features save for optics and a hinged jaw of sorts. “He looks like something from an old sci-fi movie,” Ratchet could hear the human mutter under his breath. “‘When Mars Attacks’, I shit you not.”

“It is not just you, Major,” Prowl replied. He looked over the seated mech, scanning it minutely. “I have no data on any Cybertronian frames of this make. Nor does he resemble any of the other sapient mechanoid species that the Autobots have encountered thus far. Ratchet?”

Still embroiled in initial diagnostics, Ratchet squashed the urge to snap at the tactician and shook his head instead. “So far nothing is turning up in my medical databases that comes even remotely close to this mech’s structure.” There were odd resonances that were almost familiar on the molecular level, and the surface nanomachines, at least, seemed to have a few structural similarities to their own, despite an odd lack of the usual chromaphores. Frowning, he started another series of full-spectrum diagnostic scans, dedicating more resources to amplification and interpretation. It was obvious the mech had suffered a great deal of damage; there were large sections of armor that were far thinner than the rest, though oddly enough, there was no trace of those same injuries on the surface. It looked as if instead of rebuilding the mech’s armor from the inside out, as was normal for a Cybertronian, the mech’s self-repair nanites had been building from the outside in. An adaptive mechanism, perhaps, to keep from showing weakness even when damaged?

Another set of scans came back with null values; scowling, Ratchet smacked the side of the tool’s indicator display. “Armor composition is giving me fits,” he finally admitted to the others. “I’m getting both terrestrial elements and offworld ones, and I’ll need to run more extensive tests to figure out what is what. His outer armor is also unbelievably thick, which is making it difficult to get good readings of his internal components; it’s like trying to scan through the hull of a battleship. I am getting a few trace energon readings, though, and some residuals from an EM field.”

“Is that good?” Hughes asked, one hand laid protectively on the Giant’s lower leg.

“It is … promising,” Ratchet said carefully, not wanting to get the human’s hopes up unnecessarily. Opening another compartment, he unfolded a star-shaped amplifier, attaching the spidery ‘legs’ against the armored chest and processing the influx of new data. “The more points of congruence, the more likely it is that I can figure out a treatment. Many mechanoid species display convergent evolutionary characteristics, even when not created by the Allspark. Similar adaptations in energy processing or environmental requirements, for instance, just as organic carbon-based lifeforms do.”

“I’m … gonna pretend I understood that,” Hughes said after a minute.

“There are a few transformation seams, but not as many as there should be. Not for a mech this size,” Ratchet remarked to Prowl as he inspected them. “And no obvious indications of an alt-mode.” Crouching down, he scrutinized the lower torso and gave a satisfied ‘hrmp’.

“What did you find?” Prowl asked, glancing over at him.

“Access ports. Locked down tight, but at least he has them.” Ratchet stayed in his crouch, inhumanly still as he correlated the incoming data, inspecting the ports minutely. Access would be difficult--he disliked hard-lining any mech without prior consent, much less one from a different species--but not, Primus willing, impossible.

After a few more minutes to recheck his diagnostic data and his assumptions, Ratchet straightened. “All right,” he said flatly, sending a condensed packet over the open channel to the others so that they could check his analysis, “I have bad news and good news.”

“What have you found?” Optimus asked aloud, ever-mindful of their human companions. Vocal communication took much longer than direct data transfer, but it had not taken any of the Autobots long to find out that humans were quick to take offense at being ‘left out of the loop’, as it were.

“Well, the good news is he’s still alive. As far as I can tell, he appears to be in stasis lock, or something so close to it as makes no difference. His armor is like nothing I’ve ever seen, but it does have a nanomachine base. The nanites are inert, of course, but I may be able to manipulate them, even without access to any of his medical overrides.” Ratchet folded his arms, scowling at his erstwhile patient. “The bad news is that I have to activate those nanites in order to override them, and I can’t do that without getting past his armor.”

“Catch-22, huh?” Sam said.

Ratchet paused, taking a nanoklik to research the reference. “ … correct. Basically, I need to get a line in, both to give the nanites a charge and to get a better idea of what his internal structure looks like. If he was an Autobot, it wouldn’t be difficult. Even in stasis, there are several methods I could use. But this mech’s outer shell is locked down; there are literally no points of access. I could try to bore through his outer armor, but I would prefer to avoid that. Not only would it cause more damage, but I don’t know what kind of defensive routines I might trip.”

“I take it you have another option, then?” Lennox said. He had stationed himself against the wall of the barn, keeping out of the Autobots’ way while the other two NEST personnel maintained a perimeter watch outside.

“I believe so. Here, and here--” Ratchet pointed to the two small interlocked panels along one side of the mech’s torso. “Are access ports. Locked down, just like everything else, but if I can force a hardline in past the shielding, then I can get a probe in to figure out the Giant’s internal structure, and hopefully give his nanites a base charge from my own systems.“

“Risk assessment?” Prowl asked, frowning slightly as he went over the data, mildly displeased by the sheer number of unknown variables.

Ratchet shrugged. “Acceptable.” Were this an Autobot, he would have said nominal; that’s what medical overrides and firewalls were *for*, after all. A Decepticon would have been more risky, but not by much; Ratchet had been taking Cybertronians apart and putting them back together for far too long to be easily taken off-guard by anything a Decepticon might come up with. But an alien species was a whole different story; even taking precautions, he’d be going in blind. “I won’t be going any deeper than base level self-repair programs, so I should be able to cut the hardline at any time if I run into any problems.”

“What about moving him to better facilities?” Optimus said, his concern obvious. “It might be safer for both of you to have Wheeljack or even Teletraan-1 available in case of the unexpected.”

Ratchet considered it. “I don’t think moving him would cause more damage. But moving a mech this size that distance would be no small task, especially if we wish to do it without being seen. It could be done, but ....” He glanced over at Hughes, who was listening silently, his face upturned as the Autobots conferred. The human had waited most of his brief lifetime for someone to help his friend. Perhaps it was foolish, but Ratchet did not want to take the mech from Hughes’ care without at least trying to do what he could for him here. _//I believe the risk can be mitigated with the appropriate precautions, Optimus. I would like to try.//_

Optimus considered the request, then nodded. “Very well. I trust your judgment.” _//Just be careful, old friend.//_

 _//Always.//_ Ratchet turned back to the his patient. Kneeling, he looked over at Hughes. “I would recommend you give us some space, Mr. Hughes--Sam and the colonel as well. I would not want you to be injured by a reflex movement.” Or anything more intentionally deadly, for that matter. Hughes had told them about the Giant’s defensive mechanisms, though his descriptions had been vague at best.

The human hesitated, then nodded. Giving the Giant’s foot one last pat, as if to reassure himself of its solidity, he retreated towards the barn door, Sam and Lennox following behind.

Transforming one hand into a laser cutter, Ratchet began to carve his way past the interlocking plates that shielded the access port. There was no response from the mech, autonomic or otherwise, the self-repair nanites in the area staying firmly offline. Which should have made his job easier, but even the somewhat thinner plating over the port proved to be quite difficult to cut. It was slow going, especially since he did not want to damage the port itself. Cutting away at the joins with delicate care, Ratchet removed each small piece as he went, until finally the gleaming silver metal of the port itself was exposed.

Folding the cutter away, Ratchet paused, checking his datawalls and queuing up first contact protocols, just in case. Then, reforming his hand, he extruded a slim datajack, pulling the flexible metal line out and touching it to the port. The mech’s access port was completely different from any of the standard Cybertronian interfaces, which was to be expected. Focusing in on the datajack, Ratchet began the minute structural changes necessary to adapt the jack to make a solid connection. In a sense, it was like picking a lock--albeit with a lockpick that could adapt its configuration to accommodate the shape and function of any waiting socket. He could feel the shape and composition of the access port’s interior, sense the pull of the waiting connection points … another twist, an additional relay to accommodate the odd hexagonal data transfer interlock and he was … in.

From the inside, the signs of a complete stasis lock were unmistakable. Nowhere near as bad as some he’d seen, but a total systems shutdown, regardless. Now that he was inside the armor, however, he was getting a reassuringly solid spark-signal. Internal scans showed an interior structure just as densely layered as any Cybertronian, including the familiar indications of dormant weaponry. There was residual structural damage, with the remaining damage to the outer shell now impossible to miss. And everywhere were the echoing trails of directed-assemblers and a veritable army of internal repair nanites, all shut down in mid-function.

Frowning, Ratchet checked the mech’s other vitals. The spark-signal was strange, both familiar and not, but strong. Spark-containment was perfectly intact. No activity in any of the mech’s higher or lower processing functions, which was consistent with stasis. No response from even the most base-level autonomic functions, however, which was not. No major energon lines breached, power processing and conversion systems were ... very alien, but intact as near as he could tell. There was some evidence of prior damage to a few vital areas, but all of that had been well-repaired, unlike the more superficial damage he’d found earlier. Everything just came back empty. Barely a residue of energon left in the mech’s lines, with both main power and peripheral reserves drained of every last millijoule of energy.

It didn’t make sense. Why would any mech override their own autonomic warnings, just to run themselves into stasis lock for no good reason?

 _//I’m not seeing any critical injuries,//_ he told the others. He didn’t send over his scans; no need to swamp his fellow Autobots with diagnostic data. _//It looks like he just … ran out of gas, as the humans would say. Not sure why--there might be power leak somewhere. It looks like he has an equivalent to a Cybertronian laser core; going to send a trickle charge, see if he responds.//_ The charge would be slow, but a great deal safer than trying to force energon into an alien mech’s systems. Assuming, of course, that a metallivore could even process raw energon in the first place.

Reconfiguring the hardline, he started low, sending over barely enough charge to feed a handful of nanomachines. There was no response, the power sucked away into the hungry vacuum of the mech’s systems to no apparent effect. Gradually Ratchet increased his output, watching carefully for any sign of overload. The charge was building in the mech’s reserves, he could tell that much: power levels rising, glacially slow. He was starting to feel the draw on his own reserves; his auxiliary systems were robust enough to handle the load for now, but he was going to need a serious amount of energon later ….

Then a handful of core processes lit up. Within a nanoklik, the mech’s systems all came online, an avalanche of overlapping programs and processors lighting up, cascading into movement and thought and life--

\--and the Giant opened his eyes.

Or rather, unshuttered his optics. Even knowing it didn’t necessarily mean anything, Ratchet found himself somewhat reassured by the complete lack of Decepticon-red optic lenses. Protective plates irised open to reveal white optics; an uncommon color, but not unheard of. The glow brightened as more systems came online, the mech blinking reflexively, then tilting his head down to where Ratchet still knelt at his side. Then he tilted his head the other way, oddly birdlike.

“A-to-mo?” The mech’s voice was resonant, a deep base rumble that seemed to vibrate through Ratchet’s frame. Even for a mech this size, it was … impressive. _//Looks like he just needed a wake-up call,//_ Ratchet said, sending his amusement and relief along with the words.

“Giant!” Hughes darted forward, dodging Lennox’s abortive grab for his arm, his lined face alight with relief.

“Ho-garth.” Ratchet hastily disengaged the hardline as the mech shifted, leaning forward. The tarp covering him slithered off the metal shoulders as the Giant put a hand down in a familiar gesture. The elderly human climbed into it without any hesitation, wrapping his arms around a finger to steady himself as he was lifted into the air. Cradling Hughes in front of his chest, the Giant blinked down at him. “Hogarth. … diff-erent?”

“Just a little bit.” Hughes grinned up at his friend, patting the heavy plates of the Giant’s torso. “People do that. Are you all right? I’m so glad to see you again!”

“Hogarth.” It was amazing how much confusion and affection the mech could put into a single word.

“He may not understand how long he’s been … asleep,” Ratchet put in quietly. Which apparently caught the Giant’s attention, those pale optics turning to inspect him once more, then flicking to Prowl and Bumblebee. The simple features shifted into a concerned frown.

“Ato-mo?” The words seemed to be coming easier as the Giant continued to vocalize. Ratchet made a mental note to check on language-processing as well, once they got him to better facilities.

Hughes shook his head, smiling. “No--not Atomo. This is Ratchet. That’s Prowl,” he continued, indicating each of the visible Autobots in turn. “And that’s Bumblebee. They’re called Autobots. They came to help us; they’re our friends.”

“Au-to-bot ... friend?” Another head tilt, and the mech’s other hand lifted, a finger poking gently at Bumblebee’s chassis. “Me-tal.” Bumblebee allowed the surprisingly delicate touch, patting the outstretched fingers with his own much smaller hand.

“Yes, metal,” Bumblebee confirmed, faceplates shifting into a smile as blue optics looked up into white. Stepping to one side, he offered his own hand to a waiting Sam, lifting him up. “And this is my friend, Sam.”

Confusion turned into delight. “Sam.” The Giant looked down at Hogarth. “Friend. Like Hogarth?”

Hogarth smiled, one arm looped around one of the metal fingers that cradled him, looking as if he could stay there forever. “Yes. Friends … just like us.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You know, I like to think that I’m used to the whole ‘giant robot’ thing by now,” Sam remarked. “But that? That is just *weird*.”

Watching the Giant gnaw happily on a steel I-beam, Bumblebee was forced to agree. Rust sticks were one thing--while they ‘tasted’ good (though not quite in the human sense of the word) and provided trace metals, no one actually expected them to produce enough energon to allow a mech to function.

The Giant, apparently, was a mech of a different color. Or no color, as it were. They had been forced to move out quite a bit of Hughes’ stockpile of metal in order to allow the large mech to exit the barn, and now the Giant was happily eating his way through a good portion of it as the Autobots conferred. Bumblebee did his best not to wince, doorwings flinching downward, as the Giant finished up his I-beam and popped a yellow door panel--well-seasoned with rust--into his mouth, chewing with every evidence of enjoyment.

“It is--not usual,” Bumblebee said diplomatically, not wanting to offend either the mech or Hughes. Not that either appeared to be listening. Hughes was currently holding up a length of copper pipe encouragingly, “--here, try this one! I remember how much you like copper--” The Giant plucked the pipe delicately from the human’s hands with two fingers, eyeing it appreciatively for a moment before crunching down on it like an oversized piece of human candy.

“It may have worked out for the best, though,” Bumblebee added, looking over at the rest of the group. “Optimus brought along extra energon, but it looks like Ratchet needs it more than the Giant does.” In point of fact, the medic was in the process of throwing back another cube, even as he continued his rather heated ‘discussion’ with Lennox.

“--I’m telling you, Lennox, he’s not an Autobot. I don’t think he *has* an alt-mode, Earth-based or otherwise--we’ve tried everything we could to get him to transform, and none of it is working,” Ratchet snapped, glowering down at the human.

And it was the truth. The Autobots had tried everything they could think of to show the Giant how their transformations worked: uploading a basic adaptive set of protocols; talking him through it in English, one baby-step at a time; showing him how it was done by transforming back and forth themselves … and absolutely none of it had worked. The Giant had been fascinated--a little *too* fascinated at times, such as when he’d picked up a transformed Prowl to inspect the underside of his alt-mode (and thank Primus for Prowl’s unflappable calm--it had been difficult not to allow battle protocols to take over when those blunt, strong fingers had closed around the tactician. Bumblebee had been in the hands of much larger mechs far too often not to know what kind of damage that strength could do, especially when all the Giant had to do was *squeeze* … ) --but utterly uncomprehending, even when Ratchet showed him the transformation seams on his own armor.

“All right, fine, I get it,” Lennox snapped back, equally frustrated. “But if that’s the case, then how the hell are we supposed to get him to Nevada? ‘Cause let me tell you, I’m pretty sure he’s not going to fit inside any rig that Optimus can pull.” Optimus’ normal silver trailer--the battle-platform in alt-mode--was obviously out of the question when it came to transport, but bringing in a different one wouldn’t help much either. Even the oversized trailers the humans occasionally used wouldn’t work--while they were long enough, the Giant was far broader in the chest and shoulders than even an wide-loaded rig could easily accommodate. “Even if we find a flatbed big enough, there’s no way we can clear the roads all the way from Maine to the embassy. All it would take is one idiot with a cell phone to get a good look at what we’re hauling, and pictures of the big guy will end up splashed over every major news network in the country.”

“I understand, Colonel,” Optimus said calmly, mindful of the frayed tempers around him. “We had anticipated having to accommodate either a larger size or an inability to transform, but dealing with both was always going to be a challenge. Still, we must find an alternative. It is no longer safe for the Giant to stay here.” It went without saying that the large mech was now a target--both by Decepticons and unscrupulous humans.

Bumblebee glanced back over at the oblivious mech, who was chewing on some steel cabling and patiently listening to Hughes as the elderly human told him stories of his offspring. It was hard to know how much the Giant understood. Even after five years on Earth, English appeared to be the only language he had learned, and that imperfectly--though the mech did seem to comprehend concepts better than he could vocalize them, if Bumblebee was any judge.

“We could try to fit him into a C-17, maybe, but it would be a fucking tight fit,” Lennox said, frowning. “And if he panicked, it would get really hairy, really fast. Not to mention that still leaves us with getting him to the nearest airfield without anyone noticing, though that at least might be more doable than taking him across state lines.”

“It may be possible to use the Xanthium, now that it has been rebuilt,” Prowl suggested, arms folded as he contemplated the Giant’s dimensions and coordinated several searches for alternate Earth-based transport vehicles. “It is not subtle, but if we use a night landing, all the humans will see is the ship and not necessarily what it carries.” He tilted his head. “Or perhaps he could be carried externally by one of NASA’s shuttle carrier aircraft …”

“--um, folks?” Hughes interrupted, raising his voice to be heard over the discussion. “Dumb question, maybe, but--why can’t he just fly himself?” Suddenly the focus of all eyes--and optics--he cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably. “I mean, maybe I’m missing something obvious, but if we can figure out a way to show him where to go, I’m sure he could get there.”

Ratchet wore an expression Bumblebee wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on the medic’s face before. It was an odd combination of disbelief, slow-dawning realization, and a healthy smattering of skepticism all at once. “You mean … he can fly *without* configuring into an alt-mode?”

“Well--yeah. It’s like you said; he doesn’t have one. He just flies with his feet,” Hughes said, pointing at the (rather sizeable) appendages in question. Which did have thruster-configured ports on their undersides, of course, but Bumblebee had assumed--as had everyone else, apparently--that those thrusters were meant for an alt-mode that the Giant could no longer remember he had. After all, what flight-capable mech would choose to do so in an unwieldy--not to mention aerodynamically unstable--root form? Bumblebee had only ever seen Seekers use their engines like that, and then only for short bursts during close-quarters combat--and the Giant was about as far as you could get from a Seeker and still be a mechanoid species.

“Fly, Hogarth?” the Giant asked, looking down at the human.

“Not yet, big guy,” Hughes said, patting him on the hip in reassurance. “We’re still trying to figure how this all going to work.”

Bumblebee looked back over at the others, somewhat doubtful. Even if the Giant *could* fly, was it wise to send him alone? They had no other flight-capable mechs.

“Well … that changes things a bit,” Lennox said, scrubbing a hand over his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but … clearing a flight path is a helluva lot easier than clearing the interstate, and I could probably arrange for a fighter escort. But do we really want to send an amnesiac mech on a cross-country trip by himself? Would he even make it all the way to Nevada?”

“It is a concern,” Ratchet said, his doubtful look fading into a more thoughtful frown. “My initial diagnostics didn’t show any damage that would knock him out of the air, but there’s really no way to be sure, short of getting him into the medbay for a proper set of scans. His energon reserves are still very low, but that at least is fixable--especially if he keeps eating the way he does,” the medic added pointedly as the Giant picked up another handful of rebar to chew on.

“I’m pretty sure if he can make it into low Earth orbit, he can make it to Nevada,” Hughes pointed out wryly. “Though he might rattle a few windows along the way.”

Ratchet nodded. “Point. If we can get his power reserves topped out, it might be safe enough to try. Though I still wish we had a flight-capable Autobot that could accompany him.”

“Fly--with Hogarth?” the Giant asked, surprising all of them. All of them except Hughes, Bumblebee couldn’t help but notice. The elderly human shook his head.

“I can’t, big guy--I’m pretty sure you’d be going too high and too fast for me to come along. These old bones aren’t nearly as insulated as they used to be,” Hughes said regretfully. “Not to mention I really wouldn’t be much help pointing you in the right direction.”

After a moment, Bumblebee came to a decision. “I could go,” he offered. “ I can help with navigation and communications. I’m smaller, lighter--”

“--and less armored than any of us,” Ratchet said, scowling. “If something happens and he crashes--”

“--I can always shift to cometary mode,” Bumblebee pointed out. _//Don’t worry,//_ he added over the open channel, layering on confidence/amusement to gently rebut the medic’s worries. _//This is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. I’ll be fine.//_

 _//Your logic is flawed--surviving past danger has very little bearing on the risks inherent in your suggested course of action,//_ Prowl put in, a mild snap of chastisement over Bumblebee’s blithely reassuring--and skewed--analysis. _//However, I must concede that otherwise your reasoning is sound. If one of us must accompany the Giant, you would be the best choice. Still, just because the Giant can fly does not mean he *should*. There are alternatives.//_

 _//But not good ones,//_ Bumblebee retorted.

 _//I would not say that. Merely less expedient ones.//_

“I think,” Optimus said aloud, before the discussion could once again devolve into squabbling over appropriate risks and percentages for success, “that ultimately it is not our decision.” He looked down at Hughes and the seated Giant thoughtfully. “I cannot recommend that the Giant stay here,” he told them both. “We would do our best to protect you, but we have no Autobots stationed nearby, and we would not be able to respond swiftly in case of an attack. Both of you are welcome to stay at the Autobot embassy, however, for as long as you would like.” Optimus paused, then said firmly, “You are a free mech, and I do not wish you to feel coerced into joining us. Whatever decision you make, I promise the Autobots will respect it.”

The Giant tipped his head downward to look at his friend. “Hogarth?”

“Don’t worry, big guy. I’m along for the ride either way,” Hughes said, understanding the unspoken question. He grinned up at the big mech. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

The Giant looked over at the other Autobots, then back at Optimus. His broad, simple face, lacking the myriad tiny faceplates that allowed the others to shift expression, was still oddly contemplative. Considering. And in watching him, Bumblebee was suddenly ashamed. They had been treating him like some kind of drone or mechling, making plans without ever considering the Giant’s own feelings. He of all people should have remembered that the lack of a voice did not necessarily mean a lack in intelligence!

“I--go,” the Giant said finally, standing up to look southward, over the trees. “Fly to Ne-va-da.” He tilted his head, looking down at Optimus, then over at Bumblebee. “... Bumble-bee fly with? I keep safe.”

Ashamed of his earlier doubts, Bumblebee stepped forward. “I would love to,” he said as firmly as his damaged vocalizer would allow. _//It’s been a long time since I had a chance to fly with another ‘bot,//_ he sent to the others, not bothering to suppress the associated memory-fragments of flight/fear/exhilaration. _//This will be great!//_

Amusement rippled through through the other Autobots at his enthusiasm, and Optimus wagged an admonishing finger. “No side trips or sightseeing, either of you. And if you could keep the aerial acrobatics to a minimum, I’m sure your fighter escort would appreciate it.”

“And neither one of you is going anywhere until I’m satisfied that the Giant is fully recharged and in good condition,” Ratchet added with every ounce of his (rather considerable) medical authority.

Bumblebee snapped off a human-style salute, giving the Giant a conspiratorial smile. “Yes, sir!”

“Mr. Hughes is welcome to travel with us, of course,” Optimus added. “We will not be far behind.”

“Guess I’m turning into a snowbird in my old age after all,” Hughes remarked, smiling. “I have to check in with the wife, but otherwise I’m good.”

“All right--let me get on the horn,” Lennox said, suiting action to words as he pulled out a cell phone and began to dial. “Time to get this show on the road.”

 

****

They couldn’t just take off, of course. Even with Lennox’s clout as commander of NEST, fighter escorts took time to arrange. In addition, there were human authorities to be notified, flight plans to be cleared, and the inevitable jurisdictional wrangling to be sorted out. Thankfully, the Autobot side of things was easier--Optimus merely informed the embassy to expect a new arrival. That left the rest of the double- and triple-checking of the Giant’s systems to somewhat harassed Ratchet, who after the third inquiry on the Giant’s condition snapped, “Slaggit, Optimus, I’m a medic, not a xenobiologist!”

(Whereupon the human contingent of their little group nearly died laughing, much to the other Autobots’ consternation. Finally Bumblebee, in between buzzing giggles, took pity on them and suggested they search the human internet for ‘Star Trek’ and ‘Dr. McCoy’. The half-offended, half-pleased expression on Ratchet’s face once he had done so? Priceless.)

Eight hours and multiple phone calls later, they were finally ready. The Giant had relocated to the open field further away from the barn, and after a last check of his power levels, Ratchet stepped back. “He’s topped up and as ready as he’ll ever be. All yours, Bumblebee.”

Personally, Bumblebee couldn’t help but think it was the other way around, an impression only reinforced when the Giant carefully lowered himself to one knee and held out both cupped hands for him to step into. The gentle care with which he was lifted was very reassuring, however, even if tucking himself into the crook of one bulky arm and reconfiguring his hands to lock into the seams on the Giant’s chest armor made him feel more than a little like an oversized sparkling. Humming with anticipation, he reconfigured his outer armor, slicking down the plates as flat as possible to reduce wind resistance. Flipping down his battle visor, he looked down--way down--to where the others waited.

 _//All systems go, Optimus,//_ he sent, cheekily adding a recorded fillip of NASA launch chatter for verisimilitude.

Lennox stepped forward. “Ok, the F-16’s are on their way from Hanscome--they’ll rendezvous with you en route and hand off as needed.” He was grinning. “If you can, try and keep it under Mach 2, big guy.”

“Will try,” the Giant rumbled. This close, the big mech’s voice vibrated through Bumblebee’s frame, even as the scout wondered if the Giant really knew what Mach 2 *was*.

“Be safe,” Hogarth called, waving at them both. “We’ll see you soon!”

The Giant nodded, glancing at Optimus and the others. He stepped backward for some additional distance, waiting until the humans had retreated safely--then bent his knees and leaped into the air, thrusters igniting with a roar. Bumblebee’s *yeep!* of suprise was lost in the thunder of their ascent as they climbed, the ground dropping away with incredible speed. This was more like riding a rocket than flying with an Autobot jet, and he was suddenly very grateful for the Giant’s protective grasp, metal fingers cupped carefully around his smaller form.

They reached cruising altitude within seconds, clouds whipping past in a blur of white mist before breaking through into the clear blue of the upper atmosphere. Bumblebee could both feel and hear the thunderous roar of the Giant’s thrusters changing pitch as the massive mech rolled over into a horizontal cruising position, head up and optics watchful. The pressure of the air against his armor was enormous--it had been a long time since he’d done anything like this in anything other than cometary form!--and he tightened his grip, shifting a few dorsal plates to reduce wind resistance as his outer armor heated up. The movements, tiny as they were, caught the Giant’s attention, and those round white optics looked down at him.

 _//Bumblebee hurt?//_ The words were sent in English, accompanied by a flickering mosaic of pictures: honeybees, both in flight and on flowers; an assortment of crying human faces, and ending with a particularly pointed image of a squashed tomato.

Bumblebee let his amusement show. _//No, I’m fine--don’t worry, I’m not so easy to squash!//_ As many Decepticons had found out over the course of the war. It was weird, using English in an open channel--but despite their best efforts, the Giant had been utterly baffled by even the most rudimentary Cybertronian vocabulary. English had provided a common language, at least, and once shown how to access Earth-based satellite transmissions, the Giant had taken to the internet like a duck to water. Google’s image search seemed to be a particular favorite for the big mech, who insisted upon adorning every transmission with related imagery, as if he were afraid his English wasn’t good enough on its own.

One large hand shifted slightly, cupping the smaller Autobot more firmly as the big mech adjusted course. _//OK,//_ the Giant sent, and Bumblebee couldn’t help but laugh at the accompanying set of smiley faces, some of them quite--unique.

There was a flicker of movement at the periphery of his sensor range, and as Bumblebee turned his head to investigate, two F-16’s fell into position on their flank. The fighter jets were keeping a respectful distance, with nothing threatening in their radio chatter. He felt the subtle flinch tremoring through the Giant’s armor at their arrival, however, the big mech turning his head slightly to regard each plane in turn.

Bumblebee wished he dared transform a hand enough to wave at the jets, but having fingers ripped off by wind shear was not his idea of a good time. Instead he did his best to project reassurance and calm in his field, sending, _//They’re friends, don’t worry. They won’t hurt us.//_

He received only a low, uneasy rumble from the Giant in answer, along with a few fragmented, inchoate images of fighter planes. But as the F-16’s made no attempt to fly closer, the Giant seemed to relax. Bumblebee chirped an update back to the others, as well as the base, and settled in. They were travelling at around Mach 1.6, as far as he could tell--he was a ground mech, after all, not a Seeker--and had already left the eastern seaboard far behind.

The rest of their flight proved uneventful--well, as uneventful as being carried by an alien mech could ever be. Bumblebee sent off status updates to Optimus and Red Alert, and gave the Giant a few course corrections when needed, but otherwise tried to keep the channel quiet. As much as he wanted to learn more about the alien mech, he didn’t want to distract the Giant while they were in the air.

A little over an hour later, they were in Nevada, and on course for Yucca Mountain. Their fighter escort peeled off once they had reached Nellis airspace, and as they began to descend, Bumblebee pointed out the embassy’s main entrance--a tunnel mouth bored straight into the side of the mountain that was more than big enough to accommodate Cybertronian-sized occupants. _//Home sweet home,//_ he sent cheerfully.

 _//Home?//_ There was another odd resonance to that echoed word--a flicker of light and color, too fast for Bumblebee to process--but the Giant’s satisfaction was evident enough. The big mech was already dumping his speed, angling around in order to land where his passenger had indicated, and as they drew closer, Bumblebee spotted quite a few waiting mechs, more than just the usual posted sentries. It looked like most of the Autobots currently off-duty had decided to come out and gawk at the new arrival.

 _//Hey, Bumblebee--decided to get yourself an upgrade, didja?//_ came Jazz’s cheerful hail as the Giant neatly flipped himself end for end. Using his thrusters to kill the last bit of his forward momentum, he landed in a cloud of dust and blowing sand. Jazz was no fool--he stayed well clear until it was obvious that the big mech had made a solid touchdown.

 _//Well, it’s like the humans say: walk softly, and carry a big mech,//_ Bumblebee retorted, unlatching one arm to reconfigure it back into a hand and push up his battle visor. He grinned at Jazz. _//Though I think we might have gotten it a bit backwards.//_

Stepping out of the waiting crowd, Jazz surveyed them both with hands on hips. “Just a little bit, yeah,” he said, tilting his head back. “Wow--I haven’t seen anyone this guy’s size in a while. Guess we can’t call Optimus ‘Bigbot’ anymore, huh?” He waved up at the Giant. “Welcome to the embassy--I’m Jazz!”

“Jazz,” the Giant echoed as he knelt, unclasping his hands from around his passenger. Unlatching himself, Bumblebee nimbly jumped free from the big mech’s lowered hands. The Giant stayed on one knee, his head turning, watching the approach of the smaller, brightly-colored Autobots with no trace of fear. He seemed just as fascinated by them as they were of him, leaning forward to inspect Wheeljack more closely as the engineer poked at an ankle-joint. Bumblebee couldn’t help but smile, optics crinkling upwards, and Jazz sent a silent inquiry, inviting him to share the joke.

“We all look like a bunch of sparklings next to him, don’t we?” he said out loud, using English for the Giant’s benefit. “How long you think before people start demanding rides?” Autobot fliers had been rare even at the start of the war--now they were almost nonexistent. There were still a few of the big shuttle-mechs out there, to be sure, but most hadn’t been seen for hundreds of vorns, scattered between the stars in search of the Allspark. Gestalts and cityformers were even more rare, and there just weren’t that many other Autobots built to the Giant’s scale anymore. Between his size and his ability to fly, Bumblee felt pretty confident that the Giant was going to end up very popular, especially among the younger ‘bots.

Jazz laughed. “Oh, I’m sure they’re linin’ up already,” he replied, pointing to where Bluestreak was climbing up on an extended hand, gesturing with his hands as he talked enthusiastically to--or perhaps at--the bigger mech. Sideswipe, along with most of the others, wasn’t far behind, though Sunstreaker was keeping a more cautious distance, optics narrowed. “C’mon, help me herd all of these cats inside before this turns into a total three-ring circus. The big guy has been pretty patient with us so far, but I think we can find better things for him to do than sittin’ in the dirt all day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon notes: I'm taking the relative sizes of the Autobots vs. the Giant from their respective movie canons. So for comparison, Optimus is 28 ft tall, while the Giant is almost twice as big at an even 50 ft tall. For a better idea of size comparisons, see [ this](http://tfwiki.net/w2/images2/6/67/ROTF_Autobot_scale_guide_1.jpg) and [ this](http://ultimateirongiant.com/model/137.jpg).


	5. Chapter 5

Three days later, the rest of the Autobot convoy arrived, albeit in not quite such a spectacular fashion.

Pulling up to where Jazz and Mikaela were waiting, Optimus, Ratchet and Prowl let their human passengers disembark and transformed, gratefully shaking accumulated desert grime from their tires as they responded to a flurry of friendly pings and hails. “Hello, Jazz,” Optimus said aloud, glancing down at his third-in-command. “How have things been while we were away?”

“Oh, nothing unusual, jus’ the normal mayhem and chaos,” Jazz said cheerfully. “The Giant’s been settlin’ in pretty well so far. He’s out with Bumblebee and Bluestreak right now, zoomin' round the back forty. Well, B and B are zoomin’--the Giant’s prob’ly stompin’.” Crouching down, he offered a fingertip to Hughes in an approximation of a human shake. “You must be Hogarth--pleased to meetcha! Heard a lot of good things about ya.”

“Likewise,” Hughes said, smiling. “Mr--?”

“Jazz. Just Jazz, no ‘mister’ needed,” Jazz said easily. “And this is Mikaela--our resident mechanic an’ Ratchet’s right hand human.” He waved a hand in her direction, as if there were any other gorgeous--and somewhat windblown--women standing around to be introduced. Smiling wryly, Mikaela stepped forward to shake hands as well.

“Welcome to the embassy, Mr. Hughes. It’s always nice to meet another part of the alien meet and greet brigade--though with your credentials, we might have to make you a founding member.”

Clasping her hand, Hughes shook his head. “Not so sure I deserve that. I will admit, though, I’m just glad I’m not the only one with giant robot friends anymore!”

“I can definitely understand that,” she replied. “But here--there’s no point in standing around in the sun when it’s more comfortable inside. That way we can get you settled in and gossip properly.” She flashed a grin at Jazz before turning back to the older man. “Can I help you with your duffel?” Sam, she noticed, had already claimed a worn black suitcase that she assumed was also Hughes’.

“Oh no, I have it. I don’t think I’m quite so old as to have to make a pretty lady carry my things,” Hughes said easily, smiling at her. “Where are we headed to?”

“Oh, right this way. Sam and I can show you around and get you settled ….” Jazz gave her a nod as she and Sam began to usher the older human towards the main entrance to the embassy, then straightened up again.

“Anything new to report?” Optimus asked his third in command. He would have already notified Optimus of anything critical, of course, but that didn’t mean other concerns might not have cropped up in the meantime. Thankfully, Optimus had learned long ago to step back and let his officers do what they did best, trusting them to bring him the information he needed, when he needed it. Micromanaging a civil war that spanned thousands of years and multiple galaxies, after all, was both ineffective and untenable. Not that Jazz hadn’t known a few mechs that hadn't done their best to do it anyway ….

“Not much. It’s been pretty quiet so far,” Jazz reported, rocking back on his heels thoughtfully. “Some of the usual squabbles between the humans who want us gone and the ones who want us here, but nothing that their authorities haven’t been handling. Only thing interestin’ is a hit on possible Decepticon activity from further south. Reports are comin’ in about a black and white that’s terrorizin’ the local street racers down in New Mexico--comes outta nowhere and gets in the middle of the racers, then chases ‘em down and bashes ‘em off the road. Never bothers arrestin’ nobody, though, and local law enforcement says it ain’t any of their guys.”

Optimus frowned. “... Barricade.”

“Well, it’s either him or Prowl doing some moonlightin’ on the side--” Jazz glanced over, grinning at the tactician’s unimpressed look. Ratchet snorted. “--but I think I woulda noticed that. So yeah--prob’ly Barricade. Not quite sure what he’s up to, though.”

“How many humans have been injured?” Ratchet asked wearily, obviously dreading the answer.

“Well, that’s just it. No deaths so far, and no major injuries--just some bumps and bruises. Well, and a bunch of trashed cars, but if it is Barricade, he’s been real careful to avoid killin’ anyone,” Jazz replied, letting his puzzlement echo openly, curling around the edges of his field. “I gotta admit, I can’t really figure out why.”

Optimus gave a thoughtful hum. “I do not like it, but we may have to allow the local authorities to handle this for now. We are stretched thin as it is; we simply do not have the manpower to go after Barricade right now, especially if he’s not overtly threatening the humans.” He gave Jazz a direct look. “I know I don’t need to tell you to monitor the situation, however--if things escalate, we will need to be able to move quickly. In the meantime, I will have Sam and Colonel Lennox see about warning the local authorities to be cautious.”

“Gotcha.”

“In the meantime, we could all use some time to rest and refuel.” Optimus laid a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “Thank you for keeping watch over the Giant in our absence. There is still much we do not know about him, but regardless, I am glad you were here to welcome him--and us. It is good to be home.”

 

***

 

“Well, my friend, it looks like you’re at least as smart as the average human,” Ratchet remarked to his patient.

The Giant, who was currently sitting on the floor of the medbay, since they hadn’t yet gotten around to fabricating berths configurable for a mech his size, paused to look down at the smaller mech. “I not dumb,” he said, tilting his head in puzzlement.

“No, you most certainly are not,” Wheeljack agreed, and added another spiralling arch to the structure they were building. Their resident mad scientist had been more than willing to help with Ratchet’s evaluation of their newest arrival, and had eagerly thrown himself into designing a series of cognitive and sensory tests for the Giant that took into account the big mech’s non-Cybertronian origins.

He had also, in a fit of inspiration, designed an oversized version of a common sparkling toy to keep the big mech entertained while Ratchet ran his tests. To the watching humans, the result looked like nothing so much as the mutant offspring of a Rubik’s cube and a collection of Tinkertoys--with the uniquely alien addition of parts that could disappear and reappear from subspace, and holographic panels that, when combined with their solid-state counterparts, created an almost infinite number of configurations. The resulting possibilities were limited only by a sparkling’s imagination, and the Giant had taken to the device with fascinated delight.

The current result of his and Wheeljack's combined efforts was almost twelve feet tall, and looked like what might happen if a particularly spiky cathedral had collided with a conch shell. Glowing a soft blue-green and haloed by a growing latticework of arches, it gleefully defied both gravity and a few minor laws of physics. Ratchet had to admit it was impressive. Mostly, however, he was just relieved he didn’t have to rescue any more of his medical equipment from the Giant’s curiosity.

“Wheeljack’s right, of course,” Ratchet said, placating them both. “Still, it never hurts to have the test results to back it up.” Just because a creature was sapient didn’t mean they were necessarily all that intelligent--Ratchet could think of a few Junkions, and even a few Autobots, that fell into that particular category.

“Your vocal processing modules, though--” Ratchet shook his helm. “To be honest, I’m amazed you’re managing English as well as you are. It’s no wonder the Cybertronian language modules didn’t work--you just don’t have the vocal capability to reproduce the sounds.”

The Giant nodded in grave agreement. “Words … hurt.”

“I’ll bet,” Wheeljack said sympathetically. Cybertronian, with its wide variety of high-frequency metallic sounds, was a particularly bad fit for a creature who apparently had evolved vocalizations that stayed well down in the bass and below range. “I’ll see if I can’t figure out something--maybe an external vocalizer of some kind, though linking it up to auditory processing would definitely be a challenge …”

Used to Wheeljack’s fits of inspiration, Ratchet ignored the inventor’s continued musings. “In the meantime, English seems to be an adequate substitute. There’s certainly nothing wrong with your comprehension.” He gave Hogarth, who along with Mikaela was observing from a nearby scaffolded platform, a nod of acknowledgement. “Which Mr. Hughes already knew, of course.”

Hogarth smiled, giving the Giant a wave, which the big mech returned before returning to his--castle? Sculpture? “It didn’t take him long at all to start reading English, that’s for sure--and he understood me almost from the beginning. Seemed to make sense.”

Ratchet nodded. “Spatial recognition is through the roof, and self-awareness and deductive/inductive reasoning abilities are well-established. Logical analysis is a bit more shaky, as is anything beyond base level mathematics, but neither of those seem indicative of any damage. It’s entirely possible his species simply uses systems for both that are completely different from our own.” He disconnected a diagnostic cable from the Giant’s ventral port, replacing it with a more direct hardline. “With your permission, I’m going to do a deep scan of your core processes,” he said to the big mech. “So far you seem to be in remarkably good shape, but prolonged stasis lock and energon starvation can cause errors in core programming, including self-repair and spark containment protocols.”

“O-kay,” the Giant rumbled, not appearing overly concerned. Ratchet wasn’t sure whether the big mech’s calm was simply due to a lack of experience with hardline hacks--either malicious or benign--or just a part of the big mech’s placid personality, but either way, he wasn’t about to complain.

 _//Keep him distracted, ‘Jack,//_ he sent, opening a private comm channel. _//This will feel a bit weird if he’s not used to deep-level intrusions, and the less he resists me, the more accurate my scans will be.//_

 _//No problem, Ratchet. Teletraan is linked in for backup, right?//_

 _//Of course.//_

Ratchet settled down, focusing his attention on his patient as he proceeded past the Giant’s initial datawalls, diving deep into the big mech’s alien coding. Luckily, Ratchet’s millennia of experience encompassed not only Cybertronian physiology but also that of several once-allied alien species, which at least had gave him a basis to chart analogues and differences.

The Giant’s code unfurled itself before him, complex intertwined ribbons of sensory data, analytical functions, and decision-making trees that shifted and changed with each touch, each added data-spark. Tracing them back, he was relieved to find no corruption, no truncations, dead-ended loops or worse. The Giant’s memory-archives were still sealed, of course, folded tight under layers of encryption that he made sure not to touch. Ratchet knew his limitations. He was no code specialist, and trying to break open that encryption was both dangerous and unethical, especially when it could force corrupted memory files upon an unprepared mech. Instead he merely verified that new memory nodes were well established and organizing themselves properly, with no data interruptions, then moved on.

 _//Looks good so far,//_ he sent to Wheeljack, trusting the engineer to relay any needed reassurances to their observers. _//His code is pretty resilient; there’s nothing complex enough in here to be easily corrupted, unlike, say, Prowl’s tactical algorithms. It might not be fancy, but it looks like it's served him well. Autonomic parameters are well within acceptable levels, no false lines and a minimum of deadwood … I’m going to go deeper, and check over his higher cortex code now.//_

This deep, there were a great many more obstacles, mostly interlocking datawalls and aggressive guardian protocols that had to be diverted, avoided or simply suppressed. But even those were surprisingly primitive; the Giant’s species had obviously not been forced to adopt the defenses that millennia of warfare had forced upon the Autobots, much less the insanely paranoid tangle of defenses usually found in Special Ops mechs. Ratchet moved past them, to the flickering cascade of the Giant’s higher cortex processes, letting the code stream past as he logged and analyzed the patterns he found. Here too, there were surprisingly few issues; a few old reroutes, some worn-in oddball behavioral responses, but nothing abnormal. _//Looks good here too,//_ he reported, a bit distracted as he monitored multiple datastreams. _//A surprising lack of aggressive responses, but I’m not going to com--//_

He’d been lulled into complacency, Ratchet would think later. Everything had seemed so stable, so normal. He’d followed the data cascade out of habit more than anything … only to find himself teetering on the edge of the Pit.

 _//--oh. Oh, Primus …..//_

 _//Ratchet? What’s wrong? Status!//_

 _//Primus, ‘Jack. I--//_ He could feel the chasm sucking at him, a gaping, ragged wound torn so deep, it warped everything around it. He reached desperately for Teletraan, anchoring himself with the AI’s unflappable calm.

 _//--I don’t know if I can fix this.//_

 

***

 

The artificial cavern, carved out of solid rock, had been one of the first areas outfitted by the Autobots when they had taken over Yucca Mountain. It now served as the embassy’s communications and command center, with retrofitted human technology shouldered up next to recovered banks of equipment from the Ark. The arrangement was awkward, to say the least, and more than a little rough around the edges--most of the equipment had been jury-rigged to work together, and it showed in the mismatched consoles and the tangled webs of cabling snaking along floors and walls, filling up a good third of the available space. The rest of the area, however, remained open, and was currently occupied by the rest of the Autobot command staff: Red Alert, Prowl, himself and Optimus, all standing or sitting around the central holotank according to personal preference.

 _Speaking of rough around the edges …_ Jazz thought, watching as Ratchet entered the briefing room. It wasn’t unusual for Ratchet to be running late, especially now. Between battles, combat injuries, routine maintenance requirements and the backlog of repairs for the remaining stasis-locked survivors of Sentinel’s crew, there never seemed to be enough hours in the day for their only resident medic, and right now, it showed. Ratchet looked worn, and whatever it was, it went beyond simple tiredness, if Jazz was any judge. Catching Optimus’ eye, Jazz sent him a quick comm burst, tightly shielded and wrapped in layers of _worry/concern_. _//Ratchet’s not looking good.//_

 _//Ironhide?//_ was Optimus’ reply, tinged with layers of old grief and remembered betrayal.

 _//Maybe. Part of it, anyway.//_ Jazz twisted the grief of that thought into wry amusement. _//Overwork, definitely. May need to stage an intervention. Again.//_

 _//Hmm … you’re probably right. Thank you, Jazz.//_

Five mechs--all that was left of the Autobot officers, at least on Earth. As welcome as it was to no longer have to squash themselves into human-sized buildings, the extra space made it even more difficult not to notice the emptiness where Ironhide’s solid bulk had always been. Still, this was hardly the time or the place to be maudlin; shaking away his concern, Jazz made sure to ping Ratchet a cheerful greeting as the medic folded himself down into his usual seat, then continued on with the original thread of the conversation.

“Anything new shake loose with the Tomb, Optimus?”

Optimus rubbed two fingers against his helm, letting a bit of his exasperation show. “I’m afraid not,” he admitted. “I will continue with our negotiations with the Egyptian government, and our allies here in the U.S. have said they will continue to do what they can, but we have made very little progress. The Egyptian officials are understandably very concerned about the damage that has already been done to their historical sites, and are quite reluctant to allow us to dismantle another one even further in order to remove the shells of the ancient Primes.”

Ratchet scowled. “The Primes died saving Earth from the Fallen--considering that without their sacrifice the humans wouldn’t have a planet to squabble over, I hardly think a few mud walls are more important than making sure their bodies are not desecrated further.”

“Unfortunately, they do not agree,” Optimus said somberly. “I believe I have made a small amount of headway by explaining how revered the Primes are to our people; the remains and artifacts of their own great kings have been stolen by other nations in the past, and this approach seems to have made them more sympathetic. They have agreed that Egypt has no claim on the shells of the Primes--but they will not extend that consideration to the Tomb itself, and we cannot seem to come to any agreement on how or when Autobots will be able to reclaim them.”

“Sounds like they’re stonewallin’ ya, Optimus,” Jazz put in, tapping his fingers against the rim of the tank.

“Much as I would wish otherwise, I have to agree. We knew from the start that there were several factions that would like nothing more than to obtain the contents of that tomb for their own purposes,” Optimus said. He vented a small sigh. “Not to mention the other humans that have tried to infiltrate or negotiate for access. Have there been any further attempts upon the Tomb, Red Alert?”

The security chief took a nanoklik to double-check his feeds, then shook his head. “Other than the pair of ‘treasure hunters’--” and the sardonic inflection of the words made it clear how unlikely Red thought they were actually what they had claimed, “--that Arcee caught six months ago, we’ve had no further incursions past our perimeter. The Tomb and the shells of the Primes are now fully seeded with surveillance microdrones, and Dino and Arcee are still on watch. Inferno is currently en route to relieve Dino for the next few orns.”

Red Alert hadn’t mentioned the outer cordon that the Egyptian government had thrown up around the Tomb of the Primes, Jazz knew, only because the security chief considered the human guards to be both insulting and a potential liability. The Egyptians had made their interest in the tech sealed within both the Tomb and the pyramids very clear, and while the remains of the sun harvester within Giza was too slagged to yield anything useful to human scientists, the same could not be said for the Primes. Only Optimus’ swift intervention had kept the bodies of his ancient forebears from being carted away piecemeal for human experimentation. Optimus might be loathe to impose his will on human governments, but when it came to the remains of the ancient Primes, there was simply too much at stake for the Autobots to depend solely upon their allies’ goodwill.

“Good,” Optimus said, giving Red an approving nod. “I will continue with my efforts on the diplomatic front. If this government continues to prove uncooperative, we will simply have to maintain our stance. Perhaps the next will be more amenable to negotiation.” Human lives, bright-sparked and swift as they were, were ephemeral by Cybertronian standards--lasting barely a vorn if they were lucky--and human rulers even more so. With Megatron and the bulk of his Decepticons now off-planet, the greatest threat to the Tomb’s security was gone, and Optimus was nothing if not patient. If it came down to a test of wills with the humans, Jazz had little doubt that their Prime would win.

“In the meantime, we may have a larger problem to deal with,” Prowl put in. “Early this morning, we received surveillance footage from one of the humans’ unmanned drones.” He leaned forward, and tapped in a quick sequence on the holotank. Five images snapped up into the air; grainy, unfocused and flat, they were obviously of human origin. Even as poor as they were, their subject was obvious--a F-22, caught in mid-flight over a flat, dun-brown landscape. That in and of itself was not necessarily remarkable. The fact that the F-22 was *blue*, however, was.

“Slag. Thundercracker?” Jazz said, abandoning his relaxed pose to lean forward and scrutinize the pictures. A subtle ripple of dismay and exasperation spread through the room, echoing from one field to the next.

“It appears so,” Prowl confirmed. “This came from our liasion with Nellis, who reported this picture was taken near the borders of Iranian airspace. Air Force intelligence confirms that their drone encountered the enemy fighter just long enough to transmit these images, then was shot down.”

“What the frag is Thundercracker doing on Earth?” Ratchet growled. “Thought Megatron had rounded up all of those fraggers to take back to Cybertron.”

“That is unknown at this time,” Prowl said evenly. “However, I have found three points of concern regarding these images--”

“Only three? You’re slipping, Prowler,” Jazz remarked, grinning at the tactician’s annoyed sidelong glance. A mech’s entertainment was where he found it, after all, and poking Prowl never got old.

“The first point,” Prowl continued, as if he hadn’t heard the interruption, “is that while Thundercracker has taken an Earth-based alt-mode, he has retained his customary coloration. Unlike Starscream, he is not even bothering to try and blend in as a fighter jet native to the region. The second is obviously the location where this was taken. Current Earth geopolitics place Iran firmly in opposition to the United States, who along with most of the other NATO nations have now openly declared themselves our allies. And the third point of concern is that the drone caught these pictures at all. By my calculations, the drone was well within engagement range for at least fifteen Earth-seconds before dropping offline. Against a Seeker, that means it survived at least 12.047 seconds longer than it should have, given their disparity in armament, speed and maneuverability.”

“Mebbe the Cracker was toying with it?” Jazz suggested. Personally, he didn’t think so, but the possibility at least needed to be aired. “Wouldn’t be the first time Seekers decided to play with their food.”

“Perhaps. But given the circumstances of this engagement, I find it unlikely.”

“You believe that Thundercracker *wants* to be noticed?” Red Alert said, arms crossed as he frowned at the pictures. “What could he possibly gain from announcing his presence on Earth? Is he trying to divert our attention from something else?”

“Hmm …” Jazz tilted his chair on its back legs, balancing it absentmindedly as he took Prowl’s analysis and combined it with his own, turning over what he knew of the Decepticon Seeker. “Gotta say, Prowl’s right. If this were Skywarp, that’d be one thing--but the Cracker ain’t stupid. Keepin’ his colors, lettin’ a drone get a good look at him--if Megs an’ company were still on Earth, I’d think this was a feint. But since they aren’t, looks t’ me like Thundercracker is goin’ out of his way to give us the finger.” Jazz exchanged a look with Prowl; out of all the assembled officers, the tactician was the only one who seemed to understand where Jazz was coming from. “He’s claiming turf, Seeker-style. An’ he’s daring us to come after him.” Which seriously upped the chances that Skywarp had also landed on Earth. Another uneasy possibility presented itself to him. “Prowl, Red--did we ever confirm whether Megatron took Starscream with him when he pulled out?”

A low, staticky hum of dismay vibrated around the holotank at his question, Prowl and Red Alert glancing at each other before shaking their heads. “We handed over all of our stasis-locked Decepticon prisoners, as per the terms of Optimus’ agreement with Megatron,” Red said slowly, his displeasure still plain. Optimus’ command to give back the Decepticon prisoners--especially the officers--had not been a popular one. “Among those were Soundwave and Shockwave. But Starscream’s shell was no longer where Colonel Lennox had reported it being by the time our retrieval team arrived; reports state that our forces had searched the area, but the assumption was that the Decepticons had retrieved him before we could get there.” The aftermath of Sentinel’s betrayal and the destruction of Chicago had been chaotic, to say the least, and neither Prowl nor Red Alert had been on Earth at the time. Optimus and Jazz--who had still been confined to a berth, his newly-rebuilt lower half still missing vital connections--had done their best to coordinate aiding the humans, recovering the fallen, and maintaining the fragile truce that had been established with the Decepticons, but there were only so many places their small band of Autobots could be at once.

“And Thundercracker’s loyal--but not necessarily to Megatron,” Jazz said. “Slag. I should have seen this coming.”

“You think he came to retrieve Starscream?” Red said, bristling in dismay.

“Yeah. But not just him--I’m pretty sure we’ve got the entire Command Trine on our hands. The Iran thing--that’s got Starscream’s screechy little clawmarks all over it. And Skywarp isn’t gonna to be coolin’ his heels on Cybertron when two-thirds of his trine is on Earth.”

“Any idea *why* those glitchheads are still here?” Ratchet asked, more than a little exasperated. “What do they expect to achieve all on their own?”

Jazz shook his head. “Not sure. Screamer’s a hard one to predict, ‘specially if Megatron ain’t holdin’ his leash.” He gave the others a somber look, tipping his chair back to rest on all four feet. “Could be Megatron playin’ games--could be Starscream and company goin’ AWOL. Could be his buddies are coverin’ for him while the Screamer is recovering, though that’s not likely, given Thundercracker’s stunt.” He gave a human-style shrug, tilting his hands upward. “Hate to say it, but short of trying to infiltrate Iran, we’re gonna have to wait and see.”

“No action will be taken inside Iran except as a last resort,” Optimus said firmly. “That entire region is unstable; we cannot risk inciting further hostilities from the humans, either against each other or against us.” Egypt, clusterfrag that it had been, was bad enough. Jazz might have still been in stasis-lock at the time, but he’d seen the records--and they were *still* dealing with the political fallout.

“I don’t like it, but we will simply have to keep tabs on the situation,” Optimus continued. “Prowl, Red Alert--coordinate with Teletraan-1 and our military contacts in order to optimize monitoring of Earth’s airspace. Given a Seeker’s reach and speed, we will need all the forewarning we can get.” He sighed. “If we had even one flight-capable Autobot ….”

“Well, technically we do, if you count the new guy,” Jazz pointed out. He glanced over at their resident medic. “Might not get any points for style, but he’s got size and he’s got speed. Right, Ratchet?”

“Assuming that the Giant is willing, this is true,” Optimus said in a mild rebuke at Jazz’s assumptions. “That does bring up the question of our newest resident, however. Ratchet, care to give your report?”

Ratchet scrubbed a hand over his faceplates. “Primus--I don’t even know where to *start*.”

“At the beginning?” Jazz suggested, grinning as he collected the expected dirty look from the medic.

“Hnh. Well, first off, our new ‘friend’? Is really fragging old,” Ratchet snapped.

“Old in the human sense, or in ours?” Optimus asked.

“Optimus, he’s *ancient*. Older than you, older than me--Pit, he’s older than Kup. But younger than the Allspark, if that helps, and don’t ask me to narrow it down much more than that, because if he’s got a chronometer, I couldn’t fragging find it,” Ratchet snapped. “I had to take decay readings off his spark-chamber to get that much.”

“That’s … not impossible, but it seems very unlikely. Are you sure?” Red Alert said doubtfully.

“Very,” Ratchet replied, giving the other mech a sardonic look. “It may simply be typical of his species, though there are some indications that his lifespan may have been artificially extended. He doesn’t carry any markers for mechanoid senescence, but even so, most mechs don’t live for billions of years without falling afoul of *something*. Most of his pre-Earth memory nodes have been archived. I wasn’t about to monkey with them without his permission, but there are holes--long gaps where no new data was processed at all. My guess is stasis-lock, and given the pattern in those gaps, I’d be willing to bet a crate of high-grade that they were artificially induced.”

“There are organic creatures that go into stasis on a regular basis,” Prowl said thoughtfully. “I believe the Earth term for it is ‘hibernation’. Could the Giant have done something similar, perhaps to survive an energy shortage or some other unfavorable circumstance?”

“Possible, but I didn’t find any subroutines that would fit that description,” Ratchet replied. “Just the normal emergency shutdown protocols in case of critical damage, exhausted fuel reserves, and the like. His self-repair abilities are insane, by the way--he makes us look like organics in comparison. I’m pretty sure his self-repair assemblers can fix anything short of a spark-chamber breach, given enough time and materials--including normally non-regenerating vitals like cortex processors, not to mention laser core and power plant components.” He shook his head ruefully. “That mech has isolation and self-repair protocols like you wouldn’t believe, and they’re almost all on the autonomic level. Between that and his armor, I’m not surprised he managed to survive a nuclear explosion.”

A ripple of _interest/intrigue_ went through the room, chasing away the lingering echoes of their earlier dismay. Red Alert leaned forward, intrigued. “His armor?”

“Unbelievably thick, unbelievably strong, and definitely not terrestrial in origin,” Ratchet said succinctly. “Last time I saw armor like that, it was on a sparked battleship. Wheeljack’s still running an analysis of the alloy--we think he incorporates portions of the metals he eats into his outer armor and his other vitals as well as converting them into energon, and don’t ask me how he fragging does either of those things, because I haven’t a clue. Let’s just say I don’t want to have to cut through it anytime soon. He could probably take a hit from Megatron’s fusion cannon and keep going. He wouldn’t like it, it would hurt, but it wouldn’t kill him.” Ratchet frowned, arms and shoulders tightening in unease. “That’s not all. There’s weapons beneath that armor, as well.”

“That’s hardly unusual,” Jazz pointed out, feeling a prickle of foreboding at the medic’s obvious discomfort. “Most mechs are armed, right from the moment they’re sparked. Even with all that armor, I doubt the big guy would have survived this long without some way to defend himself.”

Ratchet shook his head. “I know that, Jazz, but this ... this is something else. If he were Cybertronian, I’d think he was one of the most extreme examples of a warframe design I’d ever seen; he’s got more weapons hidden under that armor than--than Ironhide.” The hitch on the name was inevitable, and Ratchet bulled on. “Fission cannons, particle dissassemblers, things I don’t even have *names* for.” He paused, then added sourly, “Wheeljack, of course, is as happy as a pig in mud with all this.”

“But you’re not?” Optimus said, projecting _reassurance/concern_ to the obviously distressed mech.

“Optimus--he’s a slagging walking *tank*. Normally I wouldn’t care--Primus knows I’ve seen enough warbuilds in my time--but there’s something else.” Ratchet paused, rubbing a hand over his helm. “He’s been hacked, Optimus,” he said, deliberately using the harshest possible word for it, baldly resonating with overtones of _horror/betrayal/rape_. “By someone who knew damn well what they were doing. The link between higher processor functions and his battle processor has been completely severed.”

A shudder went through Jazz’s frame, and he saw it echoed in the flinches of his fellow officers--Red’s twitch, the almost imperceptible jerk of Prowl’s doorwings, Optimus’ sudden horrified stillness.

“That’s--that’s insane, Ratch,” Jazz blurted.

“Yes. It is,” Ratchet said tiredly. “I’ve only ever seen it once before; I never thought I’d see it again.” He looked down to where his hands rested on the holotank’s edge. “The Giant has no capability for higher thought in combat. Once a defensive subroutine is triggered, his battle processor takes over; but without the link to his main cortex, he cannot distinguish between friend and foe. Everything is simply a target. *Everything.* And he will continue to fight until he is either offlined, or he has no more targets.” The words dropped into the sudden silence like stones.

“Surely there is something we can do?” Optimus said. “His self-repair--”

Ratchet shook his helm. “This damage is millions of years old, Optimus--maybe even hundreds of millions. Whoever did this knew how to reroute his self-repair routines, and now the damage has been incorporated into his system as part of his normal specs. After so long, even if we could re-establish a connection, I doubt his battle processor even knows how to talk to his cortex anymore. It would take a team of code specialists and vorns of effort, at the very least.” His fingers tightened on the metal of the tank until the joints whined in protest. “Even if I tried … I’ve seen something like this once before. It was in the early days of the war; the local Autobot garrison had cleaned out an illegal pit-fighting operation in Iacon and brought the survivors in for repairs. Most of them were in bad shape, but there was one …” His voice stuttered, and he stopped, resetting his vocalizer.

“He was a creator-mech. That made it even better as far as those Pit-spawned slavers were concerned. Take a mech who wouldn’t, *couldn’t* kill, right down to his spark, turn him into an insane berserker, and then sit back and rake in the money as he tore apart other mechs for their amusement. Of course, that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t remember once it was over; his sensors were still functional and writing to memory, after all. He knew exactly what he’d done.”

One hand folded into a fist, tight enough to make the outer metal creak. “We were going to try and go in anyway, fix the damage, but we didn’t get the chance. He helped get the others out, made sure they were safe. Told us what had happened. Then he found a quiet corner and ripped his own sparklines out.”

“... Primus,” Optimus breathed.

“You don’t do this to a mech you want as a soldier,” Ratchet said wearily. “You do this if you want a killer, even when every instinct a mech has is screaming against it. Medics, creators, artists--those rare Maker-sparked mechs who otherwise would rather die than kill. And the result …” He shook his head. “You can’t put the Giant into combat, Optimus. Ever. He’ll be a danger to everyone and everything around him if we do. I’m sorry, but he’ll never be able to fight against the Decepticons. He will always be a liability.”

“No,” Optimus said firmly, walking over to place a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. “Not a liability. A civilian, and a friend.” He looked at all of them, and Jazz felt himself straightening under that regard. In that moment Optimus was utterly a Prime, his words a clarion call that rang through their frames, right to the listener’s very spark.

“Perhaps this is a sign, but I do not believe we are so far gone that there is no longer a place with us for those who cannot fight. We were once more than soldiers--and if it takes a mech like this to remind us that we can be so again, than I will welcome him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some plot-notes: I'm using the DOTM novelization ending, not the movie ending--hence Megatron is still alive, has declared a truce with Optimus and returned to Cybertron to rebuild. Will it last? Who knows ...
> 
> For the curious, the Autobot embassy is located at the now-defunct [ Yucca Mountain nuclear waste repository](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yucca_Mountain_nuclear_waste_repository), which is both government-owned, eminently defensible, and already conveniently Cybertronian-sized. :D


	6. Colors--Sidestory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because everyone comes from somewhere ....

_Long, long ago ...._

 

 

These are the colors of joy: deep blossoming indigo, true emerald green, happiness in bright firework bursts of vivid color.

Scarred-silver paths, old and new, wind beneath your feet. This is your world: ochre-obsidian rivers of flowing magma rich in their bounty, the crunch of newmetal between your jaws. Living crystalline spires reach into the sky, elaborate fractalled arches glowing in shades of aquamarine and garnet, flecked with a thousand metals from the world’s heart. Beneath them are sheltered the colors of home, and of kin: flares of yellow-bright humor, filament-threads of bright gold and silver twining, an intricate filigree of bonds created and bonds chosen; the deep glowing maroon of family, the sienna-gold overlay of love and peace.

These are the colors of creation: silver-white and metallic grey, pedes and helm and small dangling limbs furled together, unfinished and unlovely. A blank face and dark optics, an awkward burden with no colors to call its own, and you know that this is wrong, that this must change, and you set your face to the place you know must go. So you walk, all of you; step by slow step, eyes turned to the sky, heeding the call of the Mountain.

The Mountain waits for you, all of you. Singular and sharp-edged, embedded in the earth, a searing pillar fountaining into the sky in a kaleidoscope storm of colors without names, electric-shot and coruscating, flaring outward in lightning waterfalls that change whatever they touch. The Mountain is singular, the Mountain is life, and the others fall back, waiting. To linger near the Mountain is to be changed, sometimes forever.

But you know what is needful, what this grey awkward thing that burdens you must become. You take a step, slow and sure, and bare your heart, unfurling the living metal of your frame away. Lifting the thing in broad hands to the Mountain as the firestorm engulfs you, blinding whitegold and sparksilver pouring over your face and arms in benediction. One single, eternal moment ... and your burden stirs with a vibrating cry, a cascade of hues blossoming outward like a thousand jewelled and sun-sparked wings from the lithe and beautiful thing that you have created, the Mountain filling optics with light, granting it all the colors of its life to come.

 

Time passes, cycles beyond counting. The world changes.

 

These are the colors of rage and of fear: dull damaged aubergine, vibrating yellow-green edged with jagged scarlet-rust. They are all that is left to you when everything you know has been taken away, when there is no Mountain, no kin, no doubled moons to call you home.  There is only despair, and _they_ use it against you, make it so that there is nothing left in the world but targets painted in scarlet-rust and black death, searing blue flames and the vibrating screams of your own rage. World after world, and never any color in it left when you are done, only cinerious smoke and ash and shards of color fading as you watch, all overlaid by a crimson-rust-rage that you cannot escape until everything living is dead dead dead and there is nothing left moving to kill ....

 

This is the color of sorrow, and of despair: ash-gray and white, dull and dead as your outer shell.

The rust-red fury is gone. Your memories are faded, tight-closed and walled in obsidian, deep where you cannot lose them, inside where life used to be. There are no others; they are all broken, left gray and dead on a thousand worlds. One by one the colors leave you, dimming, bleeding away until nothing is left but the ashen corpse-white echo of life, transparent and silent. You watch the last few sparks float into the sky, up to the haloed stars … and then there is nothing. Nothing but the waiting, and the gray.

 

 

This is the color of hope: a rainbow you cannot see, vibrating always at the edge of your vision.

You have waited on this gray, dead world, just as you always do. You have waited, but they have not come, and as you watch the slow turn of an airless sky, you think you can see it beyond the glare of the stars. A color that is no color at all, silver-spark-bright and singing. You take a slow step, something in you changing, pointing you into that sky. There are no colors anymore, but something in you remembers. Remembers the Mountain. Remembers a burning cascade of light, filling your husk from the inside out.

You know what you must do.

You step, a slow step, and leap for the edge of night, hands stretched out to catch hold, to follow that shining thread you can almost see. Dun-gray dust swirls around you, the dead world dropping away; you have become a ghost, searching for all the colors you can no longer name.

But that no longer matters. The Mountain is waiting, out there between the bright-burning stars.

It is waiting, and when you find it, you will be home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler warnings for Dark of the Moon, as well as non-explicit references to alien sex of the non-sticky variety. Just in case there are people out there squicked by either ...

After the meeting, it did not take Optimus long to make a decision. It was not a pleasant one--but like so many of them, it was necessary.

 _//Wheeljack--can you spare a moment of your time?//_ He made sure the channel was tightly shielded, encrypted only for the engineer’s attention. He did not think the Giant would have learned how to hack open comm signals in such a short time, especially Autobot-encrypted ones, but harsh experience had taught him not to take unnecessary chances.

 _//Of course, Optimus. What’s up?//_ The reply was both immediate and upbeat, though the data on the edges was a bit inchoate--but that was normal for Wheeljack, who wasn’t happy unless he was working on at least fifteen projects at once.

 _//I have another task for you, Wheeljack--a rather unpleasant one, I'm afraid.//_ Optimus said, overlaying the apology with command-priority indicators. _//You are aware of Ratchet’s findings in regards to the Giant, correct?//_

 _//Yes--I was there when he found the damage.//_ Sorrow, underlaid by an unwilling engineer’s interest at just how the hack was accomplished and the possibilities in making whole what had been broken. _//It’s appalling, the idea of doing that to a mech … even Megatron never went that far. It’s amazing that he’s still sane.//_

_//I agree. Unfortunately, given the nature of what has been done to him, I’m afraid we need to put precautions in place. I wish I did not have to ask this, but I need you to begin researching a way past the Giant’s defenses. He is a formidable mech; if he should be attacked and lose control--//_

_//--I understand,//_ Wheeljack replied after a momentary pause. _//Although--it doesn’t feel right, designing a weapon specifically to hurt a friend. Decepticons are one thing, but the Giant … //_

_//I know. Red Alert and Prowl have been tasked with developing contingency plans, and I want you to prioritize a nonlethal solution if at all possible. But in the end I have a responsibility to more than just the Giant--I must do what is necessary to protect all of us, human as well as Autobot.//_

_//I understand. I just--I hope it’ll never come to that.//_ Wheeljack’s concern faded slightly, though it did not disappear entirely. It had only been a few days since the Giant’s arrival at the embassy, but it was obvious that the inventor had already taken him in hand. It was possible Wheeljack had focused his attentions on the Giant in lieu of Que, who still lay in stasis-lock after the battle in Chicago. Or perhaps the Giant had simply responded to Wheeljack’s obvious interest and ebulliant personality. Either way, Optimus found himself grateful for the result. A single elderly human was a fragile tether indeed, and the Giant would need protectors as well as friends if they hoped to keep him safe and sane. _//What are we going to tell him?//_ Wheeljack asked. _//Or are we going to tell him anything at all?//_

 _//It would be safer if I did not,//_ Optimus said, unhappy with the thought. Given the Giant’s armor, and the analysis of the big mech’s hidden weaponry; tactically speaking, it would be better for them if the Giant didn’t find out about any countermeasures until it was too late to mount a defense. _//But … I do not wish to be yet another creature who uses the Giant to his own ends without his knowledge or consent. So yes, I will tell him. And if he chooses to leave our company because of it, then I will accept that decision.//_

 _//I’m glad. I like the big guy--I hope he stays with us anyway.//_ Wheeljack sent over a quick pulse of _reassurance/comfort_ to Optimus, letting him feel his approval. _//Which reminds me--we’re going to need to set up regular shipments of scrap metal if he does end up staying for the long term. He’s already chewed through most of our non-vital stockpiles, which weren’t all that big in the first place, honestly. Nellis has been donating whatever surplus scrap they can spare, but we really need a more balanced--and more consistent--diet for him.//_

_//Hmm, that is an issue. I will speak with Colonel Lennox and Sam--it should not be difficult to arrange shipments through our human allies. Especially since it appears that the condition of the metal doesn’t matter greatly to the Giant.//_

_//The humans will want payment,//_ Wheeljack warned him. _//I’ve looked into the prices of metals on Earth--given the quantities we’ll need, feeding the Giant will put a significant dent in our Earth funds.//_

 _//That is a concern--but one I think we can solve without too much trouble if I ask Prowl to step up his day-trading activities. Given the overlap in the various stock exchanges, he should be able to increase our Earth income to support both our needs and those of the Giant without trouble.//_ Earth-based embassies required Earth-based funds, after all, and human charity was far too changeable--not to mention subject to the whims of political leaders--for the Autobots’ needs. Optimus let his amusement show as he added, _//I will simply have to listen to him grumble about the misappropriation of his tactical abilities and the overly simplistic nature of the human financial markets for a few orns--a small price to pay.//_

 _//Better you than me,//_ Wheeljack sent cheerfully. _//All right, I’ll get started on finding a solution. Let me know if you need any help talking to the Giant, okay?//_

 _//Of course. Thank you, Wheeljack.//_ That was one unwelcome task achieved, at least. Now to tackle the other--and the sooner, the better.

*******

As it turned out, the Giant was not difficult to find. The big mech was just outside the embassy, sitting with Hogarth upon a rocky ridge overlooking the desert below. The sun had begun to set, gilding sagebrush and broken rock with golden light, and the pair’s chosen spot afforded an excellent view as the heat of the day faded into the welcome cool of a desert evening, throwing deep purple shadows over the gentle curves of the land.

“Giant, Mr. Hughes, good evening,” Optimus said in greeting as both heads turned at his approach. “Would I be intruding if I joined you?”

Hughes glanced up at the Giant, who inclined his head in a nod. “Not at all, Optimus.” The elderly human pushed himself to his feet, dusting off the seat of his pants with both hands. “What can we do for you?”

“I was wondering if we might take a walk. I need to speak to you both, and this might give us a chance to do so more privately.” Optimus tilted his head in acknowledgement at Sunstreaker, currently on sentry duty above the main embassy entrance. The golden mech was several hundred yards distant, and either through indifference or politeness appeared to be ignoring them entirely, but was still more than close enough to overhear if he chose to.

“Sure,” Hughes said easily, shielding his eyes as he looked up towards Optimus. He gave the Giant a grin. “I think even a couple of old geezers like us can manage to walk for a bit.”

The Giant gave an affirmative rumble, and shifted his weight, standing smoothly--then crouched again to offer his outstretched hand. Hughes clambered into the broad surface of the Giant’s palm without hesitation, settling himself cross-legged and holding on to a curled finger-joint as the large mech straightened slowly. Optimus was once again struck by how careful the Giant was with his human friend, his movements as slow and careful as if he carried a priceless Vosian crystal-sculpt. It was evident how thoroughly the Giant knew his own strength, and reassuring to see how carefully he restrained it when dealing with smaller, more fragile creatures.

Optimus turned to lead the way along a well-smoothed path. Most of the largest boulders and other impediments had been removed for the convenience of Autobot alt-modes, which meant the ‘path’ could be more properly considered a road by human terms, if a rather pitted and uneven one. Still, it was more than adequate for walking down, with few hidden hazards, while still allowing them to stay safely within the embassy perimeter.

“I know this is a difficult thing to talk about,” he began, addressing himself to both of them. “Ratchet told you of the damage he found, correct? Of what had been done to the Giant?”

Hughes sobered, his mouth tightening. “He did. It ... explains a lot.” He glanced up at the Giant, who was listening placidly as they walked, the bigger mech slowing his steps to accommodate Optimus’ shorter stride. “He also said there was no way to fix it?”

Optimus could hear the forlorn hope behind that question--that somehow the Autobots, strange as they were, would be able to help. He shook his helm soberly. “I’m afraid not. Not here, at least. Ratchet is one of the finest medics I have ever known, and has done the impossible more than once. But for damage such as yours--” he addressed himself to the Giant, glancing upwards, “--we would require code specialists, facilities and materials that we simply do not have here on Earth. If someday we reclaim Cybertron, then perhaps there might be a chance. But for now, there is little we can do.”

“Is o-kay,” the Giant said, though it was impossible to determine whether the reassurance was directed at Optimus or Hogarth. “It not hurt.”

Hughes frowned. “It’s not okay,” he said fiercely. “Maybe you don’t remember it, but that doesn’t make it okay.”

“No, it is not,” Optimus agreed, stepping over the tumbled rock of a washed-out gully and glancing back at his companions. “And I wish there was more that we could do. Unfortunately, our war has cost us many things. This, it seems, is to be another one.” He hesitated, gauging the tenor of the conversation thus far, carefully choosing his words. “There is also another concern. I am grateful that both of you have accepted my invitation to come here to our embassy, and I believe there is a great deal we can learn from each other. But if we are attacked …. “ He stopped, turning to face the Giant fully, meeting that calm white gaze. “We will protect you--but I must also consider the safety of the Autobots and the humans under my care. That is why I have asked certain of my staff to find a way to stop you, should your injury end up causing you to threaten others.”

Hughes frowned, bristling a little. “Define ‘stop’.”

“I do not yet know. Our priority is to find a nonlethal means of restraining the Giant, should his battle-programming take hold. But--should the worst come to pass, and such measures are ineffective--it may involve lethal force.” It was a hard thing to consider, and an even harder thing to say. But the Giant deserved all of the truth.

“What? I came to you to protect him,” Hughes snapped, his hands tightening as he pulled himself to his feet. Standing, he glared down at Optimus from the Giant’s cupped hand, as if he could protect the much larger mech from Optimus through the force of his indignation alone. “Not to kill him whenever he--he becomes inconvenient! Especially for something that’s not his fault!”

“I remember, and my promise stands,” Optimus replied, lifting an open palm in helpless contrition. “I will do everything I can to safeguard the Giant, Mr. Hughes. But please understand, I cannot allow that promise to endanger innocents. I swear to you, the countermeasures I propose will be taken only as an absolute last resort, after all other efforts have failed. But I will not deceive you both into believing that those measures do not exist.”

“Great, so telling us makes it all better? Killing one person to save a hundred--or a thousand? Do you know how often I’ve heard that excuse? It was bullshit then and it’s bullshit now! I--”

“Ho-garth.” The Giant hadn’t raised his voice. This close to both of them, he didn’t need to. The rumble of that name silenced the angry spate of words, and Hughes swung around to face his friend. “Hogarth. It o-kay.”

“No. Giant--no, it’s not,” Hughes said stubbornly. “Just because they’re mechs--”

“Hogarth.” The Giant tilted his head, lifting his free hand to touch the elderly man’s shoulder with the tip of one finger. “Remem-ber … the deer?”

“I--”

“It is bad to kill. Guns kill.” Hughes shook his head in mute denial, but didn’t interrupt. Neither did Optimus, who could hear the resonance of memory in those words. “I choose, Ho-garth. I not kill. Not any more.”

Hughes opened his mouth as if to argue further, and the Giant shook his head slowly. “I *choose*,” he said again, and looked down at Optimus. “You will stop me. Thank-you.”

“That’s--,” Hughes began--only to bang his fist against one armored finger in frustration as words failed him. “You’d think I’d have learned by now that life isn’t fair, but … it’s just not right! You shouldn’t have to because of what someone else did to you.” He uncurled his fingers, and laid his hand against the sun-warmed metal. “They should be the ones to pay for it, not you.”

Optimus stepped forward, carefully placing his hand on the Giant’s gray-armored forearm. “I agree--and I am sorry, Hogarth. I promise you, if we ever find a way to repair the Giant, we will do so--and if the worst happens, we will do only as much as is needed to prevent the Giant from harming others. Nothing more.” It was not the promise he wanted to give. But until the war was truly over, it was all he could offer.

“I--” Hughes seemed to slump a little in defeat. “All right. But if the Giant ever wants to leave--”

“Then we will not stop him,” Optimus said firmly. “He is a free mech, and the Autobots will not imprison him against his will.” The threat that the Giant posed to the humans did not change that. All mechs were dangerous, to a greater or lesser degree. Humans, as well.

“--all right.” Hughes scrubbed a hand through his windblown hair, then sat back down, moving in careful increments. “Oof. Old hips aren’t used to this anymore.” He patted the broad surface of the Giant’s palm once he was settled, and the Giant resumed their slow walk. “If the Giant is staying … I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”

“Of course. What do you require?”

“Well, my wife’s been pretty patient so far; she knows how important the big fella is to me. But I have to get back to her sooner or later. And, well … she’s never met the Giant. Not while he was awake, I mean. The kids either. And I know it’s an embassy, and protected by the government and all of that, but--would it be possible for them to come and visit? To meet him?”

“Of course,” Optimus said without hesitation. “Your family is more than welcome, though I might suggest a few precautions for their safety. I would be happy to assign Autobots to transport them from Las Vegas, for instance.” There were few Decepticons left on-planet after Megatron’s withdrawal, but that did not mean those that remained were any less dangerous. Especially if Prowl’s suspicions were true and Starscream was one of them. “Just let us know when they are likely to arrive, and I will have Red Alert handle the arrangements.”

“Thanks, Optimus.” Hughes sighed a little in relief. “It’s a bit odd, not having to keep the Giant secret anymore. Too many years of worrying, I guess. It’s hard to let it go. But in the long run, maybe this will be better. No more lying, no more secrets. Not to mention I can finally show everyone just how cool my best friend is.” He flashed a smile up at the larger mech.

“Ne-vada different,” the Giant replied. His optic shutters and jaw-hinge shifted subtly upwards as he gave them both a peaceful smile. “Bigger. Less trees. More friends. ” Stepping carefully over an imposing barrel cactus, he shifted his attention to Optimus. “No more hi-ding. I will stay.”

“Thank you,” Optimus said, relieved. “Both of you ... I am honored by your trust.”

*******

With a vented sigh, Ratchet put the last tool away, tucking it into a fitted drawer along with its fellows. These days his med bay looked more like a salvage yard than a proper medical facility. Every possible flat surface short of the main treatment tables was strewn with scavenged parts, bits of plating and armor and disconnected internals, almost all of them scavenged from the shells of those Autobots who had not survived the Ark’s crash. Morbid as it was, it was the only way Ratchet would have the necessary materials to make repairs, and after the retrieval of Sentinel Prime and his control pillars, rescuing the rest of the Ark’s surviving crew had been the Autobots’ top priority--albeit one temporarily derailed by Sentinel’s betrayal and the Decepticon attacks. There were so few of them left, making each loss a crippling blow; the lost crew of the Ark was badly needed, even now.

But stasis-locked survivors required repairs, major ones. They needed raw materials, parts, and energon, not to mention more than a single overworked medic’s attentions--all things the Autobots were critically short on. Even with the support of many of Earth’s nations, the shortage of materials had forced both Optimus and Ratchet to make the difficult choice to perform a cold-blooded kind of triage; stripping the bodies of dead friends for spare parts and armor, and choosing who to revive first not according to injury or affection, but by how badly a particular mech’s skills were needed. It hadn’t been the first time such choices had been forced on them--but it never seemed to get easier.

Prowl had been one of the first revived; sending their primary tactician with Sentinel and the Ark had been a calculated risk, and his loss had been a crippling blow to the Autobot cause. The news that Prowl had survived the crash, along with many others, had been cause for joy and relief. But there was a dark side to that joy, as it soon became obvious that most of those survivors could not be immediately revived. Recovered by the Wreckers and a rebuilt Xanthium from their dusty entombment on the surface of Earth’s moon, and laid out in careful rows deep within the embassy, they were monitored, protected--but still, every time Ratchet passed their silent ranks, the blank faces and crushed limbs of friends and fellow soldiers were a reminder of how many mechs still needed treatment. Leaving them in stasis might be their only option, but it still didn’t feel *right*.

Shutting the drawer with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, Ratchet turned away--then hesitated as his optics fell on Que’s battered form. Laid out on a nearby berth, the engineer was unmoving, locked into stasis ever since Soundwave had tried (and almost succeeded) to execute him during the battle for Chicago. Wheeljack had worked overtime ever since his arrival to fabricate the replacement parts (and helm) his fission-sparked creation had needed, and now only minor repairs and a few final tests were needed before Que could be brought out of stasis safely. Wheeljack would be overjoyed to have Que back, Ratchet knew, and a second engineer’s help would be invaluable ... he pinged Teletraan reflexively, checking on Que’s vitals. They were holding steady, and he reached for a nearby clamp.

“Don’t you dare, Ratchet,” Mikaela said sternly from across the room. Bent over her own human-sized workbench on the far side of the bay, she took the screwdriver from behind her ear and pointed it at him threateningly. “You promised me you would take a break. Don’t make me call Wheeljack--you know I will.”

Ratchet paused, amused by the threat. “That's new. Don't you usually threaten Wheeljack with me? I’m not sure it works the other way around …”

Mikaela grinned. “I’m an equal opportunity tattletale, Ratchet. If I can sic you on Wheeljack when he forgets to recharge, then I can do the same to you--*especially* when you don’t follow your own advice. And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll turn Optimus loose on the both of you.” She narrowed her eyes at him, squinting in a mock-attempt to look threatening. “Do I need to bring out the big guns?”

“No, no.” Ratchet lifted his hands in mock surrender, giving up before Mikaela could make good on her threat. “All right--but I expect you to comm me if anything changes.”

“Of course,” Mikaela replied, shooing him off. “Brains will be back any minute, and Wheeljack and I can hold down the fort. Now scat!”

“Yes, all right, I’m going ....” Shaking his helm, Ratchet beat a strategic retreat out the main doors of the bay. His began heading toward his quarters; he desperately needed to refuel and to codify the sensory impressions, memories and other miscellaneous data of the last few orns, and a recharge would help both processes along more efficiently. Despite his own best intentions, however, his footsteps slowed as he passed the locked doors that led to the critical repair bay.

He knew there was nothing he needed to do in there. None of the CR chambers were currently occupied, thank Primus. The bay’s sole occupant was in stable condition, constantly monitored, and neither state was likely to change anytime soon. And yet …

And yet it didn’t matter. He needed this, needed to make sure. Ratchet shuttered his optics, hesitating a moment more. Then he transmitted his override code for the door, and stepped inside.

*******

_There is no sex on Cybertron._

_Among all the myriad inhabited worlds of the known universe, the process of swapping packages of genetic material in order to create offspring remains, for the most part, a purely organic trait. It is also one that most mechs find inefficient at best and mildly disgusting at worst, involving far too many fluids, specialized sexual organs, and frantic grapplings in the pursuit of ideal partners, both real or imagined. It is, for lack of a better word, utterly unappealing--alien in the purest sense of the word--and certainly nothing a sensible species would ever *choose* to engage in when there are far more sensible ways of creating offspring._

_Thus, there is no sex on Cyberton._

_There is, however, love._

_Love, in the beginning, is affection and interest, touch and exploration. The sparking of EM fields, the flaring of armor to expose surface weaknesses; the interlinking of limbs and digits to share sensations, electrical pulses, merging and exploring their differences, the parts that fit together and the parts that remain separate. What was two or three or more are now one, if only temporarily--nothing so deep as a symbiosis, nothing so interconnected as a gestalt or so irrevocable as a bond, but rare and precious nonetheless. It is accepting another into your dedicated systems, allowing weapons to be bared and stroked, the slip-slide of subtle adjustments, the transscans that allow you to fit closer, better, intertwined until you feel their flares of delight and pleasure as you do your own._

_It is risk, a weakness--to trust your partner not to rend and tear at delicate systems, to choose to bare your vulnerabilities in exchange for theirs. But the risk adds to the spice, the trust to your pleasure, bonds of friendship and need and affection all intertwined until in the end … it is all love._

*******

Bumblebee’s call had been the first sign of trouble. The databurst on what he and Sam had discovered--the Decepticons’ infiltration of the human space program, their control over the components of the space bridge, their need for Sentinel to make their plan come to fruition--had been both compact and damning; the Autobots’ reaction, immediate.

The tacnet sparked to life between one moment and the next, Optimus already issuing commands. _//Bumblebee, rendezvous with Sideswipe and Dino. Sentinel, they shall be your escort--I am en route--//_

_//Sam is with me, Optimus. Sideswipe, Dino, take the outside flank, you aren’t hampered by human passengers--//_

_//I am already on my way, Optimus. Sending my coordinates and projected route--//_

_//--we’ll intersect with Sentinel in a couple of breems, Optimus, don’t worry--//_

Ratchet was already moving, sweeping additional emergency medical supplies into storage compartments and subspace alike. Neural blockers, armor sealant, energon boosters and other specialized additives, woven-metal patches to hold together vital components and torn limbs … a medic never knew how badly or well a battle would go until it was over, and Ratchet had learned the first rule of battlefield medicine early on--better to have something and not need it, then to need it and not have it. The first scenario was only mildly inconvenient. In the second, mechs died.

 _//Lennox has been notified and is coordinating with Mearing. The base is on alert, and NEST is rolling out support.//_ Ironhide, dark and focused.

 _//Contact.//_ Bumblebee’s interjection was fast but calm, slicing through their interwoven communications as his combat-data went live and priority-flagged, ticking over as it relayed situational analyses, weapons-assessments, vulnerabilities. _//Decepticon Dreads, three of them, coming up fast from the rear. Big black SUVs--sending alt-mode datascans.//_

 _//--got it Bee, no sweat, Dino and I’ll take these fraggers out--//_ Sideswipe, his conditional status also ticking over into combat-priority, weapons systems primed and online.

 _//Stay with Sentinel, Bumblebee, at all costs.//_ Optimus’ orders were clear and calm, though Ratchet could hear the buried fear behind them. The Autobots couldn’t afford to lose Sentinel a second time--not now. _//Ironhide, roll out to intercept. Jazz, coordinate with NEST, link in and monitor the human emergency frequencies.//_

Sentinel didn’t need to tell them he’d made it safely to his escort, of course, just as the rest of the Autobots didn’t need to be told that Sideswipe and Dino had engaged the Dreads. The continuous feed of combat data--positions, system statuses and enemy movements--over the tacnet ensured unified coordination and response without any extraneous chatter, letting the Autobots act and react almost instantly to changing threats.

 _//Simmons is down. Last scan showed he and the other human were injured but still alive. Location approximately 3.2 kilometers behind current engagement area.//_ Bumblebee reported.

 _//Dispatching aid,//_ Jazz replied, the subliminal babble of multiple human frequencies overlaying his end of the channel.

_//Snagged one of the Pitspawn--c’mere little fishie! He’s on the hook, but I can’t get a lock-//_

_//I have a lock, Dino, stay clear--//_

_//Thanks for the assist, Bee. One Dread down for the count--maybe not stasis, but the fragger’s not getting up anytime soon. Now for his friends. C’mere you little--//_

_//Other two are gaining,//_ Bumblebee reported, his worry leaking through the channel. _//Trying to block, but--slag!//_ There was a sudden flurry of activity, weapons and transformation-data rolling over the tacnet, then subsiding again. _//Sam’s going to yell at me later, but we’re clear. Lots of collateral damage, but Sentinel has some more breathing room now.//_

 _//Approximately 8.4 klicks to intercept,//_ Ironhide reported. _//Sentinel, take the route I’ve marked--it’ll give us the best place to ambush your fanclub.//_

_//Noted.//_

_//Dino, Bumblebee, Sideswipe, stay on Sentinel. //_ Ironhide’s anticipatory air was unmistakable. _//Sentinel still has some distance on the Dreads. Once he’s clear, I’ll engage--those fraggers won’t know what hit them. I’ll need you to box them in.//_

Tracking the others’ positional data was as easy as thought, Ironhide and the others racing through twisting streets in their running battle as Sentinel’s tag remained steady, barrelling straight for NEST. Ratchet pinged for medical updates reflexively, relieved when only minor alerts came back--some dings and dents, systems running hot under combat conditions, but still safe. Still unwounded.

*******

_Beyond touch and exploration is a second kind of love. It is one of thought and memory, that pushes past the limitations of the physical, daring to link deeper, beyond comms and data-transfers, processor to processor. First to share admiration and longing, fleeting dreams and fascinations--then to go even deeper, daring to share memory-nodes for another’s perusal, secret gifts opened one after the other. To link to another’s senses, to see through their optics, taste their joys and sorrows. And sometimes to go even further, to the pentultimate expression of trust; to lower datawalls and guardian protocols, to let another into the very core of the mind, to blur the edges of mine/yours/ours until your thoughts twine together, plural minds now intertwined into a profound communion._

_To hack into another mech’s mind by force is rape: brutal, damaging and irrevocable. But this, freely given, freely shared; it is something more, something precious._

_It is love._

*******

Ironhide’s ambush went off perfectly. The frontliners tore the Decepticon Dreads apart in short order, and no other Decepticon ambushers materialized as Sentinel barrelled into NEST headquarters with the remainder of his escort, human guards alert and ready for any further attack. Ratchet could feel Optimus’ relief, Sideswipe and Dino’s jubilation at beating back their attackers and coming away (mostly) unscathed, Ironhide’s satisfaction that Sentinel was safe, protected--

\--and then Sentinel turned, and killed Ironhide.

NEST headquarters dissolved into chaos. The Autobots reeled in disbelief, unable to comprehend the betrayal of a Prime--*their* Prime, just as much as Optimus was--as Sentinel turned on them, ripping apart their interlinked communications, using their own tacnet against them as he tore into NEST with a strength and skill that none of them could hope to match. The screams and shouts of the humans were lost in the roar of the explosions, the fragile concrete and steel of the building shaking under Sentinel’s unleashed wrath. Sideswipe and Dino shrieked defiance and rage, Bumblebee lethally silent as he dodged another volley of shots with pure acrobatic skill, Optimus comming frantically _//Sentinel! Sentinel stop this, what are you--//_

\--then Jazz sliced the connection, severing Sentinel from the tacnet.

It didn’t stop the battle, the thunder of explosions and the screaming chaos without, but a bubble of silence seemed to descend within, one measured in nanokliks. _//Sentinel. Sentinel betrayed us.//_ The message was so distorted by grief and rage that in the confusion, Ratchet couldn’t tell who had sent it. Perhaps they all had.

 _//Hold on, all of you. I’m coming,//_ Optimus sent, grief and grim purpose bleeding through.

 _//Sentinel is going after his control pillars,//_ Jazz said coolly, reaching out and re-establishing broken connections from a thousand miles away, steadying them all. There in spirit, despite his still-damaged frame. _//He’s moving--//_

Jazz kept talking, the others responding, but it didn’t matter. Ratchet was moving, had been moving from the moment Ironhide’s status-marker tripped over into critical systems failure, armor breach, power reserves falling, laser core compromised, coolant cores compromised, backups failing …. Something else exploded, a section of girders falling with a thunderous crash, and two pedes weren’t fast enough so he transformed in mid-run, accelerating around the corner and into the main hangar bay with the screech of rubber on concrete.

Ironhide was there, a dissolving pile of battered armor, scarcely recognizable. Ratchet didn’t bother to brake, transforming and skidding to a stop on one hand and knee-plates. He hadn’t truly thought he’d need this--had never considered that he’d need more, not so soon, not for this reason--but that didn’t stop him from yanking out the container of corrostop he’d tucked away several days before, spilling it over his hands and Ironhide’s dissolving torso. There wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to cover everything, but if he could save the spark core, the main cortical processor banks because Ironhide was a frontliner, and no warframe was stupid enough to put primary processing and memory cores in their helm, that was just asking to have them blown off--

\--Ironhide’s torso gaped wide, a yawning chasm of devastation. His helm and faceplates were gone, nothing more than a half-dissolved puddle of rust, but the hole in his chassis wasn’t getting bigger, and the spark core gleamed inside, untouched, core integrity still intact. Even so, new alerts were still chasing each other, Ironhide’s vitals failing in cascades too fast for him to contain, piling up like human screams. His spark core might be whole, but the crumbling armor showed Ratchet that the laser core that powered it was *gone*, power plant nothing more than a collapsing husk of metal shards, the vital lines that fed the spark corroded into uselessness. Ironhide’s spark flickered, containment fraying around the edges, failing ….

Ratchet yanked his chest armor open, ruthlessly suppressing the alerts and warnings that tried to scream in protest as he bared his own fragile internals. What he was doing was insane, he knew. It went against every single medical and safety protocol he’d ever learned, ever taught. This was something to be tried only in a sterile bay, with CR chambers and other medics nearby, not in an ash-filled and crumbling building on an alien mudball of a planet, not on a patient so thoroughly contaminated by acid rust that no medic should even be *touching* him without containment measures in place. If the corrostop hadn’t been enough, if he introduced it into his own vitals, if Sentinel came back and blew his fragging helm off while he was defenseless--there were too many ifs and not enough time, and he ignored all of them.

Instead he dug his hands deep into his core, transforming fine manipulating digits into spreaders, hooking out the lines he needed. Cybertronians adapted, it was what they did, what they were. Vorns of war had changed him, altered his frame: to bear heavier armor, to accommodate increased subspace storage needs for weaponry as well as tools, to partition off pain and still function, to add redundant internal systems that could support an injured mech’s for a time. He pulled a laser scalpel from subspace with his free hand, and sliced down, severing auxiliary sparklines. Alerts shrieked, flickering as they piled up almost too fast for his subroutines to shunt aside, and Ratchet snarled as he scoured the corroded remains of Ironhide’s sparklines away and jammed the still-glowing ends of his own in their place, sealing them into the gaping sockets.

“Not this time, you fragger. I’m not losing you to something like this!” Firewalls tried to slam into place, to reject the foreign spark energies; he overrode them. The drain on his core was immediate, the pain--whether it was Ironhide’s or his own, he couldn’t tell--excruciating even through the partitions. Humans shouted and ran about them, things exploded, but it didn’t matter. Megatron himself could have had his cannon to Ratchet’s helm and he wouldn’t have noticed. Crouching over Ironhide’s remains, he cradled that wounded spark core against his own, waiting for the others to come.

 _//Stupid fragger,//_ he told that silent, flickering spark. _//How come you didn’t see it coming? Why didn’t you *duck*...?//_

 

***

_  
_

_//He couldn’t have known. None of us did.//_ Optimus’ sending was a gentle intrusion into the memory-cycle, enfolding him with careful strength. Ratchet stirred, his systems cycling up out of recharge as arms surrounded him, blue digits reaching out to twine with his own dark hands. Optimus settled behind him, making the subtle adjustments needed to cradle Ratchet’s smaller frame into the curve of his own with the ease of long familiarity. _//In the face of such a betrayal, we all did the best we could. And you did even more than that--you saved him.//_

 _//Did I?//_ Ratchet onlined his optics and lifted his helm, knowing what he’d see. Ironhide’s spark rotated slowly, glowing blue-white in its containment chamber, safe and secure. The chamber was designed much like a CR tank, but intended only for the vital task of supporting a disembodied spark; as a result, it had multiple redundant back-up systems and containment shielding. The original spark-chamber and most of Ironhide’s vital memory and processing cores--which now floated in a silvery nanite solution, slowly regenerating acid rust-damaged sectors--had been saved by the corrostop … but almost nothing else. Ironhide’s frame was gone, right down to the protoform, nothing left but a pile of filings and rusted shards. On Cybertron, before the war, building another would have been--not easy, perhaps, but definitely achievable, and likely taken only a few orns. To do the same on Earth--would be a monumental task.

 _//It doesn’t feel like it. I hate seeing him like this,//_ Ratchet confessed, knowing Optimus would keep his fears secret and safe. He was their Prime still, in all the ways that Sentinel had foresworn. _//He’s so vulnerable .… He’d hate that.//_ He turned one arm over, looking down at the extended conduits that connected him to the unit, allowed him to feel the steady flickering energies of Ironhide’s spark--and hopefully, for that spark to feel him as well. _//I know he’s safe. I just ... don’t want him to think he’s alone.//_

Sparks were strange things; complex, densely layered energies that existed in dimensions beyond even Cybertronian science. A spark contained all a mech was--their ‘heart’ and ‘soul’ in human terms--but spark-thought, spark-memory was very different than the more conventional data stored in a mech’s cortex. Some sparks guttered at even the first hint of deprivation, much less after such a profound trauma; others would burn steadily, utterly unperturbed by millennia of isolation. Ratchet wanted to believe that Ironhide’s spark was strong enough, stubborn enough to hang on, no matter what--but in all honesty, there was just no way to know for sure.

 _//Teletraan is always with him,//_ Optimus said gently. It had been a simple enough task for the AI to dedicate a few primary nodes of his personality matrix to the constant monitoring of Ironhide’s spark. _//The rest of us, also--we all spend time with him, and we will continue to do so. You’ve kept him safe, Ratchet. No one could ask for anything more. Ironhide will return to us in time--and I believe he will have a few choice things to say to you about the risks you took when he does--but in the meantime, his spark will not be alone.//_ His grip shifted, his helm lowering to rest upon the top of Ratchet’s own. _//And neither will yours. We are safe, and finally at peace--even if that peace is tenuous. We have time, Ratchet. Time to rebuild, time to mend; and time to rest. Please take that time, old friend. For our sake, if not your own.//_

 _//Mikaela sicced you on me, didn’t she?//_ Ratchet sent, his field heavy with rueful acceptance.

 _//Jazz, actually,//_ Optimus admitted. Ratchet could feel the fine faceplates shift against his helm as Optimus smiled. _//He watches out for all of us. Even you.//_

 _//Don’t you mean ‘especially you’?//_ Ratchet retorted, but relaxed with a final vented sigh, letting the last resisting tension of his frame go, his outer armor loosening, claspers reaching out to hook into Optimus’ heavier plating, overlapping and drawing him close. Letting himself rest against that deep-rooted strength. _//But … you’re right. Thank you, Optimus.//_

_//Of course, old friend. Always.//_

*******

_Beyond touch, beyond thought and memory, is the rarest connection of all. It is the truest expression of trust and faith, the deepest any mech might know another. It is a choice that cannot be forced. Never taken lightly, it is a careful approach, a gradual inclusion, drawing shielding aside layer by careful layer. This is your heart, bared for another, terribly vulnerable under the all the layers of armor and weapons and datawalls that have formed over millennia. But for some there is no resisting that spark-deep call, the need to no longer be alone in the dark. It is drawing closer, falling together until the final barriers are gone and you are no longer alone, but a binary star, a trinary, a galactic swirl of coronae overlapping, sparks twining together until there is nothing left in the universe but joy._

_Some sparks will touch, share their selves, their joy, then retreat again to rest behind layers of shielding and armor. Others find a resonance, a kinship that can forge an unbreakable bond. And some, a very few … some choose never again to be apart, to create something new and unique from what once had been two wandering sparks._

_It is not sex, not as organics understand it. But for all the creatures given life by the Allspark--it is love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note on corrostop: yes, it's a cheesy name, don't blame me, blame G1. :D My justification for Ratchet making/having a batch on him is that no medic worth his salt is ever going to let any soldier, even Sentinel Prime, run around with what amounts to a incredibly lethal biological weapon without having a batch of the cure on hand, just in case. Remember kids: friendly fire isn't!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: there are nonexplicit references to mechpreg this chapter, though it's closer to plant reproduction (plantpreg?) than any kind of human pregnancy.

“So, you got the briefing, right?”

Martinez shot the other airman a wary look. “...yeah?” He might be new, but that didn’t mean he was an idiot. Of course he had. Everyone got the lecture on transfer--’Welcome to Nellis. Keep your nose clean, your gear in order, and for the love of god, whatever you do, do NOT piss off the giant alien robots living next door.’ Of course, ‘next door’ meant a hundred miles and the better part of a mountain away, but everything was relative. And as far as military briefings went, he had to admit it was certainly different.

Thompson gave Martinez a sidelong glance. It was an ominous look--an I-know-something-you-don’t-know kind of look. Martinez wasn’t sure what it meant, but it definitely put all his ‘new guy’ instincts on alert.

“So okay, here’s the deal. They’re not too bad, once you get to know them. Though those NEST fuckers? They’re nuts.” He gave a shrug as if to say, _Rangers. What can you do?_ Martinez nodded in agreement. “But the giant robots are actually pretty cool. You’ll probably see them pretty often on patrol. We keep an eye on our side of the fence, they keep an eye on theirs--it works out pretty well.”

The fenceline was new, Martinez remembered from the briefing. It had been put in place after Yucca Mountain had been officially given protected status as Earth’s first interplanetary embassy, in order to separate off the embassy grounds from the rest of the Nevada Test Site. Still, as tall and intimidating as it was, topped with barbed wire, sensors and too many cameras to count, it was pretty obvious the fence wasn’t there to keep the aliens in--especially considering most of the aforementioned aliens were large enough to just step over it--so much as to keep humans out. There were the thrill-seekers, the gawkers, the wandering hikers … and then there were the other, more serious threats. After Chicago, public sentiment about their resident aliens was decidedly mixed. Most of the population had decided that the Autobots were the lesser of two evils, but that still left a lot of grieving and angry individuals who were more than willing to try something stupid.

“What do they look like?” Martinez asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Are they really that big?” He’d seen footage from Chicago, of course--who hadn’t? Plus some of the more-classified stuff in the briefings. But it was still hard to believe it was all real. Exactly when did *aliens* become normal? Much less aliens that could look like--well, anything?

“Nah, not really,” Thompson said, with all the assumed nonchalance of an old hand. “A lot of ‘em are only around fifteen, sixteen feet tall, really--when they’re standing up, that is. Mostly they like to stick to car form out here; really fucking nice ones, too. You’ll see them from time to time--there’s a Topkick, a Camaro, a Corvette …”

Martinez choked a little. *Only* fifteen feet tall? “A Corvette? Out here?” He waved a disbelieving hand at the broken rock and scrub that stretched for miles in every direction. Even the so-called ‘road’ they were bumping over wasn’t much more than two gullied tire tracks following the fenceline, all over terrain that would murder something as low-slung as a Corvette.

“Guess alien robot undercarriages are a bit more sturdy than ours,” Thompson said, amused. “Anyway, so if you see a car on the other side of the fence that really doesn’t look like it belongs there--look for the insignia. They all have that red face-symbol on ‘em, though sometimes it can be hard to see. And watch out for the Camaro. You wouldn’t think something that color would be hard to spot, but that fucker likes to sneak up on ya.”

“Sneaky … Camaro. Right,” Martinez said dubiously, still not entirely sure Thompson wasn’t pulling his leg.

“Hey, believe me or don’t, I don’t care,” Thompson said. “They might be robots, but they can move fast and quiet when they want to.”

A distant _*boom*_ shook the earth. Martinez jumped.

“Well--except for that one, maybe.”

Another _*boom*_ , this one even louder; Martinez’ fingers tightened around his weapon as he craned his head, looking for the source of the noise. “What the hell …?”

A head came into view, over the top of a nearby ridge. It rose up--and up--and kept on rising as the rest of the robot climbed into full view. Surmounting the ridge, it began walking towards them, each unhurried step impacting the earth with a metallic _*boom*_ they could feel vibrating through the air. Massive, barrel-chested and gunmetal gray, it most definitely did NOT look like a car, low-slung or otherwise.

“Holy shit--what the fuck is that? I thought you said they weren’t that big!”

“They aren’t,” Thompson said, stopping the humvee. Folding his arms over the wheel, he gave Martinez a shit-eating grin. “Except for that one.”

“Jesus fucking--what the hell does *that* turn into? A fucking troop transport?”

“Dunno. Never seen him do anything but walk around. Don’t worry, though--he’s friendly.” Still grinning, Thompson honked the horn a couple times.

Martinez damn near throttled him right on the spot. There was hazing the new guy, and then there was just plain stupid. “Are you *nuts*? Do you WANT to get stepped on?” That giant head was swivelling towards them, the round glowing eyes clearly visible even from this distance, and Martinez cringed a little in spite of himself. Maybe he’d watched Independence Day a few too many times, but damn it, he knew what happened to dumbass soldiers the minute the giant robot showed up! If he got disintegrated by death-lasers or phasers or something, he was going to kick Thompson’s ASS.

Thompson just laughed, the fucker.

The giant robot tilted its head, as if it was contemplating whether or not to unleash the death-lasers. Then it lifted an equally giant four-fingered hand and waved.

“Smile and wave at the nice robot,” Thompson ordered. Martinez shot him a death glare, but did as he was told, giving the alien a somewhat half-hearted wave of his arm.

“Aaand there’s another one,” Thompson commented, as a silver sportscar topped a nearby rise. The car streaked towards the larger robot, moving unbelievably fast and with a complete disregard for any obstacles in its way. It hit the edge of a gully and launched itself into the air, ‘Dukes of Hazzard’-style; Martinez goggled.

“Is that a *Porsche*?”

Thompson squinted at it. “Umm--yup. Porsche 911, looks like.” Spot-the-sportscar was apparently a favorite pastime while stuck on fenceline patrol.

“Ho-ley shit.” Martinez winced as the car landed hard on the other side, but the thing didn’t even slow down. It sped toward the giant robot, trailing a cloud of dust and flying bits of brush. Then the Porsche spun out moments before hitting one of those massive feet, and just--broke apart.

It was one thing to see it on film. But this--it was--the car was suddenly no longer a car. It split along invisible seams, and bent and *twisted* and suddenly it was a silver-armored robot--alien--that launched itself towards the bigger robot’s knee, grabbing hold and swinging itself upward with all the speed and skill of a monkey climbing a tree. “Holy fucking shit,” Martinez said again.

The new arrival scaled the bigger robot’s torso without hesitating, and the bigger one didn’t seem to mind, even offering a forearm as a convenient handhold along the way. One last flip and twist, and the new robot was sitting on the big one’s shoulder. Martinez belatedly realized he had left his hand hanging in the air like a dumbass, frozen in mid-wave, as it turned to look at them, visor glinting blue in the sun.

And then it waved too.

Martinez gave them another feeble wave, then dropped his hand and manfully resisted the urge to clutch at his rifle like it was a security blanket. “Giant robots. Holy shit.”

“Yep,” Thompson said. He gave the two aliens an casual salute, and then started the engine, giving Martinez an evil grin. His work here was done. “Area 51, eat your heart out. They got *nothing* on us. Holy shit indeed.”

 

***

_A long time ago, in a system kinda far away ..._

 

The first explosion is always the hardest.

At least, that’s what his mentors had always said. Thankfully, Wheeljack’s own first explosion was many vorns behind him. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to make them hurt any less.

“... ow,” he managed, the word coming out metallic and edged with static as his vocalizer rebooted. He ran through the usual checks, noting familiar errors--apparently he’d lost several sets of chemoreceptors in the blast, which autorepair was busily replacing--and cycled his optics, noting a familiar presence currently piggybacking onto his diagnostics. “Oh--hi, Ratchet. How are you?”

“I was just fine until a certain idiot decided to blow himself up. *Again.*,” Ratchet said, his annoyed resignation prickling against Wheeljack's scorched sensory arrays. “Though it looks like you got lucky--you’re a little crispy around the edges, but at least you didn’t lose any limbs this time.” Ratchet slid hands under one shoulder and an arm-joint, roughly boosting Wheeljack upright--then paused. Wheeljack felt the prickle of medical scan, and Ratchet’s frown deepened.

“Is there something you want to tell me, ‘Jack?  
”  
“Uhm--don’t mix dibenzotetracyclin with chlorated santrinium?”

“You know what I mean.” Ratchet gave him a narrow-opticked stare. “Don’t play dumb, Wheeljack. You’re 3.48 mechands heavier than you should be, and last I checked, explosions don’t cause people to *gain* weight.”

“Uhm …”

“Much less add mass to their protoform.”

“Well …”

“And since I know for a fact you haven’t suffered any protometal-deep injuries in at least the last half-vorn, that really only leaves one reason for you to be taking on additional mass.”

Wheeljack squirmed under Ratchet’s unrelenting scrutiny. “It’s not what you think,” he protested.

“Oh really?” Ratchet crossed his arms across his chassis with the scrape of armor on armor. “Because what I think is that you’re building out a hatchling frame. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Okay--so it is what you think. But it’s not as bad as you think!” Wheeljack replied, holding his hands up placatingly before the looming Medic O’ Doom. “I thought this out, really I did. The Decepticons have been quiet for over three vorns now, we’re far from any action, we’re well-stocked with energon and raw materials--”

“--and all of that could change at any moment,” Ratchet snapped. “Frag it, Wheeljack--you’re not a creator-spark, you don’t have an excuse for this kind of idiocy! What the Pit were you thinking, trying to sparkbud in the middle of a war?”

“... honestly, Ratchet? I was thinking that this might be my only chance,” Wheeljack said urgently, suddenly serious. “Ratch--how long has this war been going on? Hundreds of vorns. And it could be hundreds more before it’s over, assuming anything’s left by then.” He sat up the rest of the way, wincing as new damage reports pinged for attention. “I could be offlined tomorrow. So could you.” He tilted his head, vocal indicators flickering wryly. “And since when have I ever waited for it to be safe to do anything?”

“Point,” Ratchet acknowledged, but his frown still didn’t fade. “But Wheeljack--this isn’t some experiment you can set aside. You’re going to have to sacrifice enough protometal to seed the new frame, plus spark-energy and energon, assuming you get the spark to take. And after that … this isn’t like going to the Allspark. It’ll be *vorns* before you’ll be dealing with a fully adult mech.”

Underneath the disapproval, Wheeljack could tell Ratchet was genuinely worried. In wartime, the risks inherent in creating new mechs were daunting. He’d have to take his weapons offline for the latter part of the process, and if they ran short on supplies … well, sparkbudding was tricky even at the best of times.

Ratchet shook his head, sitting back on his pedes. “At least tell me *why* you decided to do this.”

Wheeljack shrugged, misaligned plating popping back into place as it moved. “Because I wanted to see what would happen, of course.” What better reason was there to do anything? He smiled at his friend. “Besides, think how great it’ll be to have two of me around!”

Ratchet groaned, covering his faceplates with one hand. “Primus help us ...”

 

***

_Present Day_

 

It was dark where he was. A long dark, like the time before light--but that didn’t bother him. Nor did the flickers of memory-files-- _No prisoners. Only trophies._ \--that flitted past from time to time; divorced of the fear and terror of the moment, the regrets of things left undone, they no longer had the power to hurt. The hurt was past, and now--now he was waiting.

It bothered him, a little, that he didn’t know what he was waiting for. There were countless possibilities, of course, and he yearned to explore them. He wanted to stretch his hands--where were his hands, anyway?-- out to them, turn them over and uncover their secrets, delight in new discoveries … there was just so *much* there, he could feel it, just barely, maddeningly out of reach ….

And then there was another. A voiceless call, beloved and familiar.

_//Que?//_

He knew that touch, that spark, as familiar to him as his own. Father-brother-twin, wise and patient and endlessly curious.

_//Wheeljack!//_

That name, easier to remember than even his own, pulled him up to the surface, away from the dark. Memory followed, and thought and feeling as connections were established, belated reports flooding in of damage done and repairs made, changes and new connections forged to his frame. He cycled his optics, focusing down from haloed smears of color and electromagnetic variances, belatedly registering Ratchet’s unobtrusive presence in his systems, monitoring his vitals. “Wheeljack,” he said again in delight, looking up at that masked face. “You’re here!”

Wheeljack’s faceplates shifted upwards to reveal the smile behind the mask, the vocal indicators to either side of his helm flashing a warm rose-mauve. “So I am,” he said in mock-surprise. He reached out and knocked his knuckles gently on the front of Que’s helm. “Heard you got yourself in a bit of trouble, so I decided to come and give Ratchet an assist. How’s the noggin, kiddo?”

“Functioning normally,” Que replied automatically. “Was there something wrong with--wait. Soundwave. Oh … I remember now.” He sat up, double-checking his diagnostics. “No, everything is reporting fine, well within parameters.” He patted his helm gingerly, as if to check it was securely attached--then froze. “My helm!” He did a quick trace, checking over his repair-logs, which reported total integration of a replacement Cybertronian-standard helm and faceplates, with no residuals remaining. All that careful work on custom faceplates, simulated keratin, even his human emotive patterning--all gone! He twisted around to give the resident medic a look of betrayal. “Ratchet!!”

Ratchet scowled at him, unimpressed. “Don’t whine at me, Que. That ridiculous helm of yours was in a million pieces, and I’m not going to waste my time putting it together when I have other patients to see to. If you want to look like your stein-human again, you’re going to have to do it yourself, just like the last time.” He snorted, and disconnected the monitoring linkups with a sharp yank.

“It’s *Einstein*,” Que snapped, bristling at the insult to his work. “Not stein-human--and he was a great thinker, way ahead of the other humans of his era! That helm--”

“That helm was fragging ridiculous,” Ratchet barked, losing what remained of his patience. “AND a liability--you went into a firefight with Decepticons without so much as a battlemask, you idiot! If you’re going to rebuild the stupid thing, then at least armor your sensory centers better--do you know how many fused cores I had to replace?” He transferred his glare to Wheeljack. “I’m blaming *you* for this idiocy, just so you know.”

“Ratch--”

“Don’t ‘Ratch’ me, Wheeljack.” Ratchet slammed a hand down on the berth. “Out! Both of you--if you’re well enough to whine, then you’re well enough to walk, and I have other patients waiting.”

Que cringed in spite of himself. “I’m sorry, Ratchet. I didn’t mean to--it’s just …” He slumped. All that work ... “I was really proud of it.”

Ratchet bristled, armor expanding, fully intending to deliver another sharp rebuke. Then he deflated with a huff, unable to stay angry in the face of Que’s disappointment. “I know, Que. And you’ll be able to build it again. But right now we needed *you*, even without the fancy helm.” He reached out and wrapped a hand over the engineer’s shoulder, letting Que feel the relief and reassurance in his field. “If Barricade had managed to get another shot in, there might not have been anything left of you to save. You had a pretty close call, you know.”

Que straightened, belatedly embarrassed by his outburst, especially in the face of Wheeljack and Ratchet’s obvious concern. “I’m sorry--you’re right. Maybe I should design some heavier armor to integrate into my frame?” Another memory triggered, belatedly surfacing from unarchived files, and he flinched. “Bumblebee! He was--is he all right?”

Ratchet snorted. “He’s just fine--came close to getting his helm blown off too, but thanks to Wheelie and Brains, Soundwave got distracted, and that was all ‘Bee needed to get the drop on the slagger.” He tilted his helm towards the hallway. “He’s been waiting to welcome you back, you know, along with a lot of other mechs. Go on. Wheeljack and I can spare you for a few more orns while you integrate your repairs and let everyone get used to your new look.”

“Right,” Que said, obediently hopping off the berth and pinging for location-IDs. Topspin and the others were still on-planet, he noted with relief. “I should check in with the Wreckers too, make sure they don’t need my help.” He headed for the exit, still thinking. There was just so much he’d had to leave half-done! “And I’ll need to set up my workshop again. Wow, look at all the *space*; this gives me a lot more room to work than the Xantium. Solid bedrock as well, that will help--you’ll help me find where they stashed all my equipment, right Wheeljack? And help me rebuild my helm? I have some ideas for improvements--and I need to talk to the humans about the grapple-gloves I gave them …”

 

***

 

Ratchet shook his head ruefully as he watched Que bounce out of the medbay. “He really is a chip off the old block, isn’t he?” Humans had more oddly appropriate sayings ….

Wheeljack just grinned, indicators flashing a cheerful yellow. “Yup! Isn’t it great?”

 

***

 

“So, have you decided yet what you’re going to tell the U.N. next week?” Sam asked as he climbed the ladder to the nearest convenient Autobot-high gantry, one of several built into the command center in order to accommodate human occupancy amongst Cybertronian-sized equipment. Once at the top, he plunked himself down, dangling his legs over the edge in complete disregard of ambassadorly dignity.

Turning away from his contemplation of Red Alert’s surveillance data, Optimus tilted his head in a nod. “Indeed I have.”

“Well? I have to admit, I’ve been wondering what you were going to decide. Can you give me a heads-up, at least, so I know what kind of fallout I’ll have to deal with afterwards?” And there would be fallout, Sam knew from experience. In politics, there was *always* fallout, no matter how innocuous the announcement. Especially when it came to dealing with giant alien mecha.

“It has been a difficult decision,” Optimus admitted. “As you know, we have already shared some minor technologies--the energon detectors and other necessary devices to locate Decepticons. But Earth’s governments have not hesitated to press us for more; and some of the reasons they give are sound. There is much good we could do for your people, and your planet is vulnerable. The Decepticons are not our only concern; there are other predatory species in the galaxy. Now that we have made contact with Earth, it is possible that others will follow.”

Optimus glanced over at Red Alert, who (near as Sam could tell) was currently monitoring their surveillance linkup with NEST, in addition to the Autobots’ own network of microdrones. “However, we also cannot ignore the possibility of our technology being abused rather than used for the benefit of mankind. And given the fractured state of Earth’s current geopolitics, there is simply no practical way to control how such advances are used by various governments once the information is released.” He vented a sigh.

“So you’re thinking of just saying ‘no’ until we get our act together?” Sam asked. Technically he was the Autobots’ liaison to Earth, not the other way around--that role, at least for the United States, had been de facto assigned to Colonel Lennox after the last fiasco (and the one before that, and the one before that) involving White House-appointed bureaucrats. So if the Autobots decided Earth wasn’t ready to have access to Cybertronian technology, it was his job to explain that to the Powers That Be, regardless of how little he wanted to have that particular discussion.

“That would be the easier solution,” Optimus admitted, with another glance over at Red Alert. “However, I do not believe it would serve us well in the long run.” Sam cocked his head as the Autobot head of security made a sound that resembled nothing so much as a metallic snort. Apparently there had been some disagreement on that issue.

Optimus folded his hands behind his back thoughtfully. “It is my belief that the human race is too accustomed to shaping the world around them to accept such an edict. A denial of access to our technology would likely be viewed as an insult at best, and a threat at worst. It would also be impossible to build a true alliance if the Autobots are seen as reclusive interlopers, or … what was the term? Arrogant ‘nannybots’? That are making decisions for the humans instead of with them.” He smiled wryly at Sam. “My first impulse then was to give some of our technology freely to the humans to prove our goodwill, but Jazz has persuaded me otherwise.”

“Jazz?” Sam echoed, surprised. “How come?” He had a hard time envisioning friendly and easygoing Jazz as a hard-nosed negotiator. Now *Prowl*, maybe …

“Jazz has made a study of most of Earth’s dominant cultures. He believes--and I now agree--that while the humans would initially show gratitude for our technology, such a gift would also invite suspicion, and possibly foster an unwanted dependence on Autobot largesse. Those in power would wonder what the Autobots hoped to gain by such a gift--what was ‘in it for us’, as Jazz put it. They would also not hesitate to make further demands as time went on. Jazz also pointed out that in many Earth cultures, gifts are often not as valued as that which is earned, and that reliance upon the charity of others often invites scorn. Which is, curiously enough, counter to many human religious teachings. Needless to say, it is a complex situation.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam said slowly, swinging his legs back and forth as he thought it over. “I hadn’t looked at it that way, but I think Jazz is probably right. At least as far as the U.S. is concerned, anyway, giving anything away for free is probably a bad idea.” He smirked. “We want Earth to respect you guys in the morning.”

Optimus nodded gravely. “Yes, respect is essential for building any kind of alliance,” he said seriously, and Sam had to hide a snigger behind one hand. Ok, he really hadn’t expected Optimus to get that one. He was a bad person, really he was.

“As a result, we have put together a compromise,” Optimus continued. “We do not want to favor one human nation or corporation over another or unintentionally upset the balances of power that the humans have worked out amongst themselves.” Personally, Sam thought that the balance of power on Earth could use some upsetting, but he kept his mouth shut and let Optimus talk. “So we will license certain portions of our non-military technology to the Earth as a whole. The U.N. shall be Earth’s representative body in this matter--we will propose that every country be expected to contribute in proportion to their overall GNP, and will share equally in the released information. Yes--even the ‘bad’ countries,” he added, forestalling Sam before he could do more than open his mouth to protest.

Sam thought about arguing anyway--then exhaled, letting out the air in a gusty sigh. He was pretty sure he could already hear the outraged screams on that one “That’s not going to be popular,” he said, more out of the vague sense that he should put up *some* kind of protest, even a token one. And getting all those countries to cooperate? Including the angry, isolationist ones? The horsetrading on that was going to be *murder*.

“No, I am afraid not. But we cannot pick sides in this--or use the judgments of a select few nations about who is undeserving of these advances.” Optimus didn’t move, or fidget, but simply stood tall and unyielding--and Sam was pretty sure he was seeing a sneak preview of what the U.N. was in for in a week’s time. “We will be open to bargaining in regards to the eventual price of this ‘licensing’. But there will be a price.” Optimus levelled an electric blue gaze on Sam, who found himself unconsciously straightening under that regard. “We cannot control the use of our tech once it leaves our datafiles. But we can make it clear that any nations who use it to advance their own military and weapons technology will soon find their neighbors have Autobot assistance in devising countermeasures to defeat those weapons, entirely free of charge.”

In this, Sam knew from previous discussions, their two species were very similar. Both humans and Cybertronians were both highly adaptable and aggressive by nature, and there was no tech anywhere in the galaxy that couldn’t be adapted for use as a weapon, given enough time and creativity by the sentient in question. Give one mech a shovel and he’d use it to dig a hole. Give a second mech that same shovel? Chances were good he’d decide to hit his neighbor over the helm with it.

Free will at work; something even the ancient Primes had been forced to face. They had died to ensure humanity’s right to exist, to determine their own path, and suddenly Sam had a new appreciation for how difficult that choice must have been.

“Do you think that will work?” Sam asked. “Or will it just speed up a new arms race?”

“We will do our best to ensure that it does not,” Optimus said gravely. “Prowl’s projections are favorable. But ultimately, humanity’s fate must rest in their own hands.” Which didn’t mean that Optimus wouldn’t feel eternally guilty if humans did end up annihilating themselves with borrowed Cybertronian technology. Sam felt his gut twist at the thought of all the ways this could go wrong.

“Man--now I’m almost wishing you guys would say no,” he said finally, reaching desperately for some humor to deflect his own paranoia. “That’s a lot of ‘ifs’.”

“Yes. But there is also the possibility for great good to come of this as well.” Optimus’ expression gentled, and he tilted his head at Red Alert. “While it is always prudent to plan for the worst, I often find that expecting the best can yield surprising results.”

Red Alert tilted his helm, glancing sidelong at them both. “Surprises are not always good ones,” he said dryly. “And just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.” The security head’s delivery was utterly deadpan, but Sam had gotten better at reading Cybertronian body language, and he couldn’t help but snicker. Red Alert’s reputation as humorless was not entirely undeserved--the mech was more than a bit of a workaholic--but he had a wry sense of humor, one that humans and Autobots alike rarely saw coming.

“So what tech will you guys be giving access to first, since weapons are off the table?” Sam asked.

“Energy production, I believe. Your nuclear fission reactors are quite … inefficient,” Optimus said, which Sam knew was Prime-speak for ‘unspeakably primitive and prone to failure and how the Pit did humans ever decide that stockpiling enormous amounts of mutagenic radioactive waste was ever a good idea anyway?’ “We can offer several improvements that will not only increase output, but also greatly reduce the half-life of the byproducts produced by your existing reactors. In time, I believe the advances we can offer could remove humanity’s dependence on burning carbon fuels, which would benefit Earth in many ways.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, good idea. Countries will be falling all over themselves for a piece of something like that. Are you--” There was a blurt of sound from a console across the room--an odd, multitonal beep--and he jumped in surprise. “What was that?”

Optimus and Red Alert seemed to be equally surprised. “An incoming transmission,” Red Alert said, tilting his head and reaching out a hand to link up with the console in question. “Encrypted *very* well, but definitely intended for us. Teletraan-1, can you pinpoint the source?”

“Affirmative,” came the AI’s reply. “Source: Cybertronian vessel, designation Axalon. Current location: Solar system, nearing Uranus orbit. Encryption key identified for Blaster, Communications Head, Third-In-Command. Shall I open the channel?”

“Blaster?” Optimus turned, shifting his attention to the holotank. “And so close! Affirmative, Teletraan--open the channel and accept incoming communications.” The tank fuzzed, Red Alert’s data breaking briefly into a blue-green swirl of light, then coalescing once more into an entirely new image--that of a broad-shouldered, visored mech with a vivid red- and yellow-armored protoform.

“There ya are, my mechs! Optimus, good to see ya--how’s it hangin’?” the mech said cheerfully, and Sam couldn’t help but notice that whoever the new guy was, he certainly had Earth slang down pat. “Pretty little system you’ve got here. I like the locals--they’re noisy, but interesting. Been listening to their transmissions ever since we hit the edge of the heliosphere. Wacky stuff!”

“It is good to see you too, Blaster,” Optimus said with genuine pleasure, moving within better view of Teletraan’s pickups. “In retrospect, I suppose I should not have been surprised that you would pick up on my transmissions so quickly.”

“Yup. Heard ya loud and clear, and with an invite like that, how could we say no? Especially since I heard you sent Megatron packing back to Cybertron. Speaking of which, I’m pretty sure Springer wants to talk at ya about that.” Blaster pulled a wry face. Despite the inhuman mouthparts and the visored optics, it was a surprisingly humanlike expression.

“I’m sure he does,” Optimus said wryly. “He’ll have to get in line behind Prowl and Red Alert, I’m afraid. Nevertheless, it will be good to see you both. How many others are with you?”

“Besides my mob, you mean?” Sam blinked. That was an odd turn of phrase--did he mean the ship’s crew? “We’re a bit of an odd collection, I’m afraid--not too many heavy hitters on board. We’ve got Springer and Kup, plus Hot Rod and Cliffjumper, plus the geek squad--Seaspray, Hoist, Grapple, and Perceptor. Oh, and Cosmos is hanging out past the Kuiper Belt keepin’ an eye on the local interstellar traffic. You know how he gets about gravity wells.”

“That is good news,” Optimus replied. “In truth, all of you are badly needed; especially yourself and the ‘geek squad’.” He didn’t quite do air quotes around the words--much to Sam’s disappointment--but watching Optimus, with his natural gravitas, attempt Earth slang was amusing enough without it anyway. “Will you be arriving soon?”

“Pretty soon, yup. Perceptor figures we’ll be there in about 1.23--I dropped off the seven extra decimal places just for you, see how nice I am?--of the third planet’s solar orbits. Since you guys don’t have an urgent need for reinforcements anymore, we’re conserving fuel and taking the scenic tour of the system instead of burning straight in.” Blaster grinned, leaning forward. “Which should give you more time to work on the locals. Have ya talked at them yet about renaming their planet? Cause I have to tell ya, Planet Dirt? Kinda dumb. You know all the other kids in the galaxy are gonna laugh at ‘em, right?”

“Oddly enough, that particular topic hasn’t come up yet,” Optimus said drily. “But I will take it under advisement. Perhaps you can discuss the issue with Sam when you arrive.” Sam waved helpfully at the tank pickups.

“Can do! Been looking forward to picking your brains anyway, kid,” Blaster said cheerfully. “Never had an alien get that up-close and personal with the Allspark before, and I’ve got a ton of questions about Earth.” Sam was starting to think he might be in trouble--time to break out the contingency plans. Maybe he could hook Blaster up with Miles?

In the holotank, Blaster continued, “We’ve got some other news too, I’m afraid.” The cheerfulness faded, replaced by something a great deal more serious. “We’re getting some weird vibes coming out of Cybertron. Word on the street--well, according to Cosmos, who probably hasn’t ever set pede on a street in his life, now that I think about it--anyway, word is that Megatron is having problems keeping the rank and file in hand. Lotsa unhappy rumblings … and the Command Trine has gone missing. They’ve been trying to keep it on the down-low, but well--Starscream is kinda noticeable, especially when he isn’t around slagging off Megatron.”

Optimus nodded. “We know. We believe they may actually be on Earth, though we’ve only confirmed Thundercracker’s presence thus far. It is surprising that they would break with Megatron after so many vorns of loyal service, but we are aware and monitoring the situation.”

“Optimus--it’s not just the Command Trine,” Blaster said, now utterly serious. “This is pretty big--we estimate Megatron’s lost about half of his aerial forces so far. Mostly Seekers and other airframes, though there are a few helos and other frametypes sprinkled in there too. And the thing is, we’re not talkin’ about the usual infighting. They’re not making a huge stink about starting a new faction, or trying to go after Megatron. They’re just disappearing, going AWOL one and two mechs at a time.” He lifted hands in an open-ended shrug. “We don’t know for sure where they’re going, but Skyfire and Cosmos have plotted the last-known trajectories of the ones we could track, and most of them seem to be heading for this part of the galaxy. If the Command Trine is on Earth--I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet they’re coming here. Which means you’re going to have a whole lot of Decepticreeps on your hands, and soon. Pit, some of them are probably in the neighborhood already.”

“That is--not good news,” Optimus said slowly, frowning. “And we have no idea why they’re suddenly abandoning Megatron?”

“None,” Blaster confirmed. “‘Course, with Seekers, who knows why they do anything? But I’d bet Springer’s stash of highgrade that Starscream is behind it somehow.”

“This is certainly troubling news. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Blaster--I will have Red Alert and Prowl begin working on an analysis immediately.” Optimus gave Blaster’s image a grave nod. “And I look forward to the Axalon’s arrival; it seems you will be needed even more than I had anticipated.”

“Always happy to help, even if I do get to be the bearer of bad news,” Blaster said cheerfully. “All right, I don’t wanna use up all my interstellar minutes on one call. You have our frequency--yell for help if you need us and we’ll come in engines hot, OK?”

“Thank you, Blaster. Please remain vigilant in your approach; if there are Seekers in-system, I would hate to see you fall victim to an ambush.”

“Pft. Any Seekers dumb enough to mess with us are going to get their afts handed to them--Springer’s been itching for action for a quarter-vorn now, and Hot Rod isn’t much better.” Blaster gave them a human-style salute--although, Sam noticed, he used the wrong hand. “OK, see you crazy mechs soon! Axalon, signing off.” The tank image winked out of existence, and Sam looked at Optimus.

“More Decepticon jets. This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

Optimus vented a sigh. “Yes, Sam. This is a going to be a very big problem indeed.”


	9. Chapter 9

“And here I thought we were done with this slag,” Ratchet grumbled to Jazz as they headed into Operations. The cavern was looking nominally better than it had a few months ago; Wheeljack and Que’s combined efforts had gotten more of the recovered equipment from the Ark up and running. Which meant less reliance on jury-rigged human tech, which was all to the good; if Jazz never saw another ‘blue screen of death’ again, he would die a very happy ‘bot.

“No rest for the wicked,” Jazz said cheerfully. “At least Blaster gave us a heads-up about our imminent Seeker infestation before they decided to drop in and bomb our afts back to the first Golden Age.” They headed for their usual seating arrangements, acknowledging pinged and spoken greetings as they went. 

Most of Optimus’ war council had already arrived. Red Alert and Prowl were early, as always, while Bumblebee was filling Ironhide’s position as field commander, and looking none too happy about that fact. Bumblebee, for all his cheerful demeanor and brightly-colored exterior, was just as much a warframe as Ironhide, and every bit as deadly. He was also positively allergic to anything that smacked of commanding more than a unit at a time. But with Ironhide in stasis and all other higher-ranked Autobot warframes still offworld, that left only Bumblebee to fill the gap, no matter how little he might like it.

The human half of their conference was also in place--for the most part. The only two actually physically present were Sam and Colonel Lennox, with the now-Defense Secretary Mearing and General Morshower ‘conference calling’ in via the holotank. The U.N. Security Council, Joint Chiefs and the White House would get the highlights once the meeting was over, but for right now, Optimus had emphasized that this conference was to be by invitation only. Personally, Jazz thought that edict had been made not only due to security concerns, but also because the more humans you got in one place, the more things they seemed to find to argue about.

Optimus stepped into Operations, his field somber, scanning the cavern. “Is everyone present?” he asked, mostly for the humans’ benefit. “Yes?” A few affirmative nods and pings, and he settled himself into his usual spot. “Very good. Then let’s begin. I’m sure everyone has been briefed on Blaster’s report?”

“Such as it is,” Morshower’s image said, the man frowning down at something out of range of the visual pickups. “No offense, Optimus, but this isn’t exactly solid intel. Do we have any proof at all that this splinter group of Decepticons, assuming that's what they are, is even headed our way?” 

“Blaster and Cosmos’ reports have always been reliable, General,” Prowl said. “And while they might be short on specifics, if they believe that the Seeker defectors are heading towards this system, then it is almost a certainty that they are correct.”

“Blaster’s a solid mech,” Jazz agreed. “Don’t let him fool ya--that cat can crunch data-loads that would make most Cybertronians melt their circuits, and turn Earth supercomputers into little charcoal briquettes. If he says they’re coming, then they’re coming.”

“All right--given all that’s true, what do we do about it?” Sam asked, glancing between Autobots and human leaders. “*Can* we do anything about it?”

“At the moment, I’m afraid our options are limited,” Optimus replied, obviously unhappy at the admission. “The Decepticons have always had the advantage in aerial combat, and that is not likely to change, especially with Starscream as the leader of this new faction. Without the Aerialbots or any Autobot shuttle-mecha here on Earth, we must rely on the Xantium and Earth’s defenses to defend against Seeker incursions.”

“Neither of which is going to do us a damn bit of good if those Seekers decide to get serious,” Jazz put in bluntly, saving Optimus from the necessity of doing so. “In space, the Xantium might be able to hold them off, but in a planetary atmosphere? A couple of trines are gonna rip her to shreds, no matter what the Wreckers do. Hell, the Command Trine could probably do it all by their lonesome. And pitting Earth pilots against Seekers? They’d be toast just as soon as the Decepticreeps stopped laughing.”

Colonel Lennox and General Morshower both had nearly-identical frowns of displeasure at this news. “Wait just a damn minute,” Morshower interjected, scowling. “Our F-22s went head-to-head with Starscream in Mission City. They might not have taken the bastard out, but they managed to hold their own.”

“You had seven F-22s against one Seeker, and lost half your fighters within ten earth-seconds of engagement,” Prowl said bluntly. “Against a trine, they wouldn’t have lasted even that long. Against a full wing, it is unlikely your fighters would even have managed to get off the ground. Seekers are the masters of the air; their frames are designed to withstand g-forces that would pulp an organic. Their reaction times are measured in nanoseconds. At Earth’s current level of technology, any human pilots that engage Seekers in combat? Are dead."

Both men bristled, but before Morshower could argue further, Mearing stepped in. “Very well,” she said, leaning forward, eyes narrowed. “If the Autobots can’t fight them in the air, and human technology isn’t up to the task, does that mean you’ve reconsidered your stance on human access to your weapons technology, Optimus?”

“I’m afraid not, Secretary Mearing,” Optimus said firmly. “While the Seekers are a possible threat to Earth, thus far they have done little except shoot down drones and violate several nations’ airspace. If we were to release Cybertronian weaponry into human hands, we would be replacing a nascent threat with the far more certain danger of humans using those weapons against other humans, to the detriment of the entire planetary population.” He regarded her levelly. “Only in the face of an overwhelming and immediate threat to Earth as a whole would I consider that option.”

“Which brings up a good point,” Sam interjected smoothly, neatly forestalling another round of Mearing vs. Optimus. “Why *aren’t* Starscream and company doing anything? They haven’t gone after any Autobots, or even after any U.S. military assets--at least none that weren’t getting into their faceplates. Why? And why are they here, on Earth? I mean, if they couldn’t manage to kick Optimus’ tail *with* Megatron’s help, what makes them think they’ll do any better by themselves?”

“They’re probably just building up their forces,” Lennox grumbled. 

“That is a possibility,” Prowl agreed. “Starscream, especially, will require more time to recover from the damage you and Sam inflicted upon him in Chicago. It is also likely that for the moment, at least, Starscream is consolidating his position. Seekers might be unparalleled at aerial combat, but their defection from Megatron’s forces leaves them with a very large problem.” 

“No ground support,” Bumblebee said quietly, optics narrowed.

“Correct. Without Megatron, they have no supply lines, no medics, and no ground forces to hold any territory they might take.” Prowl laced black-armored talons together as he continued. “Even Seekers have to land eventually. Which means they need a base of operations, and that base requires defenders. They require energon--midgrade or better, and a great deal of it--in order to fly and to fight. And with battle comes battle-damage, which requires mecha skilled in repair, ideally medics, as well as the raw material and facilities to support those repairs.”

“And you can bet your aft that Starscream knows all of this too,” Jazz put in. “He wasn’t Megatron’s second-in-command just ‘cause he’s pretty.”

“Which is why he’s camped out in Iran,” Mearing said sourly, finishing the thought aloud. 

“Yep. I’d bet a month’s supply of Sideswipe’s best moonshine that the Screamer made Iran an offer they couldn’t refuse. Literally.” It wasn’t a new conclusion, honestly, and most of the Autobots had probably already figured it out, but Jazz figured it was best to get it out into the open with their human allies as well. “With Iran, he gets a defensible base of operations, access to their refineries and their oil reserves in addition to solar and nuclear options, and borders that are well-defended by the resident humans. Hard to pass up somethin’ like that.”

“While Iran gets an alien air force that is superior to everything else on the planet,” Mearing added. “Wonderful. So it’s no longer a matter of if Iran goes after its neighbors, but when? I don’t think I have to tell you that this is a powder keg, people.”

“That’s assuming that their new ‘air force’ would cooperate,” Bumblebee pointed out. “Starscream isn’t about to take orders from a bunch of humans. Not unless it serves his purposes. And he’s certainly not going to put Seekers into the line of fire just so some human can build himself an empire.” He glanced over at Optimus. “Seekers are difficult to slot into a military command even at the best of times. You have to be able to outmatch them on their own terms; only the L--only Megatron ever managed to do it for any length of time.” He gave Sam an apologetic look. “No offense, but I can’t see humans being able to do that anytime soon.”

“None taken,” Sam said wryly. “I went head-to-head with Starscream once, and that was enough for me. I’m not looking for a round two.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lennox said, giving him a feral grin.

“You, sir, are a crazy man,” Sam told him. 

“And you’ve been hangin’ around Sideswipe too long, I’m thinkin’,” Jazz added, amused but not surprised. If there’s one thing this planet had taught him, it was never to underestimate an organic, no matter how squishable they were. 

“Lennox’s suicidal tendencies aside, can we get back to the topic at hand?” Ratchet added before the conversation could derail any further. “So they’re in Iran. They’re not leaving Iran, and there’s frag-all we can do about that right now. But they’re probably not going to launch a full-out assault on anyone anytime soon. That pretty much cover everything?” He scowled, tapping a finger against the rim of the holotank. “Do we have any confirmation on how many of the fraggers are even here yet?”

“That’s the one good thing about their location,” Red Alert said sourly. “Most of Earth’s military satellites are already tasked with keeping close watch on that region. While their surveillance technology is still substandard--”

“Hey,” Lennox said, and Mearing frowned a little at the slight. Red Alert barrelled on without noticing, and Jazz resisted the urge to vent a sigh. Typical.

“--we’ve still managed to acquire images of their base of operations, and optical confirmation of at least four distinct Seeker frametypes. Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker have all been identified. The fourth we believe to be Acid Storm, though given the poor quality of the images, we do not yet have full confirmation on that ID. Once Wheeljack and Que finish work on Sky Spy, it should be able to augment our surveillance network considerably. At that point we will be able to track Seeker movements both on-planet and off with a great deal more accuracy.”

“Great. Fragging Rainmakers.” Ratchet grumbled. “If he’s here, the rest of them aren’t far behind.”

“Rainmakers?” Sam asked.

“The Rainmaker Trine. The moniker got slapped on ‘em during the war, and it stuck. We can give you the full briefin’ later, but let’s just say Acid Storm ain’t called that for no reason,” Jazz told him.

“Oh yay.” Sam pulled a face, but left it at that.

“If these Seekers are so badass,” Lennox put in, “They’re not going to like us spying on them. They’ve already taken out most of the UAVs we had in Iraq and Afghanistan--what’s to stop them from doing the same to your new spy satellite?”

“Sky Spy is designed to both cloak and defend itself from Seeker attack,” Red Alert replied. “Its AI is a budded node-branch from Teletraan-1, and has a certain degree of sentience, which will allow it to predict enemy movements and react accordingly. Getting it off-planet and into orbit will be the greatest point of vulnerability, which is why we will not be relying on a standard launch, but sending it up in the Xantium under the protection of the Wreckers.” 

“We wouldn’t stand a chance at keeping Sky Spy online and unhacked if Soundwave were still in-system. But Starscream generally has better things to do than play hide n’ seek with satellites,” Jazz added, leaning back and lacing fingers behind his helm. “Especially ones that are really good at not gettin’ caught. As long as we’re only watchin’ and not attackin’, Sky Spy is probably safe. For a while, at least.”

“So we’ll have intel, but we’ll be able to do damn-all about it if these Seekers actually do decide to attack?” Mearing asked, her expression making it clear that she was Not Happy with this situation.

“At the moment, aggressive action will only provoke an equally aggressive response,” Optimus said evenly. “I believe a multi-pronged approach would serve us best. Seekers are known for their arrogance, which is unlikely to sit well with the Iranian government. At the same time, Iran cannot provide everything that the Seekers will need in the long-term; something Starscream knows quite well. If we keep diplomatic channels open on both the human and the Cybertronian fronts, compromises may yet be reached that will stave off hostilities even longer. The time thus afforded will allow us all to put other countermeasures in place; additional surveillance, more missile defenses, and hardening human infrastructure against possible Seeker attacks.” He looked down at the human contingent, his expression grave. “I will not pretend such things will be easy--they will take a great deal of effort, resources and political will, both in the United States and elsewhere. But they are necessary.”

“The ol’ carrot and the stick, eh Optimus?” Jazz put in, amused.

“Indeed.” Optimus’ expression, if anything, grew even more somber. “If there is one thing our war has taught me, it is what happens when you back mecha--especially warframes--into an untenable position. Starscream may yet follow in Megatron’s footsteps, and decide to take what his mecha need. But if there’s any possibility of averting that course … then I believe we owe it to both ourselves and Earth to do our utmost not to embroil yet another world in our endless war.” 

“Just so long as the solution doesn’t involve Earth paying tribute to alien overlords,” Mearing replied, leaning back and crossing her arms. “I have no objections to diplomatic overtures, of course. But I doubt very much this administration--or the U.N., for that matter--will agree to be shaken down by a bunch of arrogant alien flyboys.” 

Lennox snickered a bit at that, while the rest of the assembled humans and Autobots reacted with varying degrees of amusement and/or exasperation. Except for Prowl, of course, who maintained his usual imperturbable calm.

“All right--we can hammer out the nitty gritty details later,” Sam put in, with the resigned air of a man who foresaw a lot of paperwork--and meetings--in his future. “But at least we’ve got a basic handle on the situation, right?”

“In the most general sense, yes,” Mearing said grudgingly. “Both the general and I will have to take this to our superiors, of course, and I can’t make any guarantees on their response.”

“Of course,” Optimus replied. “I will ensure that Red Alert and Prowl are available for any additional information your government might need.” Within reason, of course, but Jazz knew Optimus was too canny a diplomat to say so. 

“Yep, looks like things are gonna get fun again,” Jazz said cheerfully, leaning back and kicking his pedes up onto the edge of the tank, ignoring the dirty looks he was getting from Red and Prowl. “Decepticons and Seekers and politics, oh my!”

 

*********

 

Jazz paused in mid-step, tilting his head. He’d been heading--reluctantly--towards a mandatory checkup at the medbay, but he didn’t have the sharpest audials on Earth for nothing, and he was sure he’d heard … something. Something out of place amongst all the familiar clanks and thumps and voices created by the embassy’s occupants, both Cybertronian and human. Frowning, he upped the gain on his audial arrays, listening intently. Vorns of war had taught him to pay attention to noises, *especially* the quiet, out of place ones.

But now, as hard as he listened, he heard nothing. No encrypted frequencies, no sounds of distress. Just the murmur of distant conversation, the thrum of distant machinery vibrating along his frame--wait. Jazz opened up his range, focusing down on the subsonic frequencies as he placed the tips of his fingers against one rough stone wall. There it was--faint, more felt than heard, rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern he didn’t recognize.

“Curiouser an’ curiouser …” Jazz murmured. Tuning out the background noise, he followed that barely-audible thread, letting it lead him down the winding, still mostly-unoccupied tunnels. It grew louder as he walked, the vibrations transmitted by the stone to the sensitive sensors on his manipulator-digits slowly becoming louder. A turn and a few more steps, and he could hear it clearly now … a rhythmic pattern, rising and falling in a distinct melody, quiet and low and utterly alien in a way that Earth music no longer was.

The source of the song was easier to track now that he knew what to listen for, and eventually his meandering progress ended in a cavern just off of the embassy’s main tunnel. This close to the entrance, the hollowed-out space was enormous, large enough to accommodate even the largest chunks of salvage from the Ark with room to spare. Which, Jazz realized, was probably why a certain oversized mech had chosen it. Tucked in between the gleaming silver bulk of Optimus’ trailer--the battle-platform in alt-mode--and a dusty, oversized excavator, was the Giant.

Oblivious to Jazz’s presence, the alien mech sang quietly to himself in a rumbling croon, his optics half-shuttered. Jazz, music-lover that he was, had listened to every scrap of song that Earth had to offer. Safely stored away within his memory-archives were human symphonies and Cybertronian concertos, folktunes and pop songs and everything in between; precious relics all, many the last known copies of works sung or performed by mecha now long-dead. In comparison, the Giant’s song was no masterpiece. It was painfully simple, even primitive, a single melody line sung in a metallic baritone. Repetitive, with no counterpoint, no harmonics, looping over and over again. And yet …

… and yet there was something else underneath it, something more. Jazz listened, fascinated, as the song echoed off the cavern walls, using them, building layers of the Giant’s voice into alien harmonies. Thrumming, the stone vibrated and sang in turn, a ghostly geologic chorus of echoes supporting the lone singer at its heart. It was beautiful. Not to mention completely unexpected, coming from such a quiet mech.

Jazz wasn’t sure what gave him away--perhaps a stray flare of enjoyment in his field, or the ping of metal upon metal from one of his internals--but the Giant broke off in mid-note, shuttered optics opening as he turned his head towards where Jazz stood, half-concealed by an outcropping of rock.

Somewhat sheepishly, Jazz stepped out of the shadows and lifted a hand in greeting. “Sorry ‘bout that. I didn’t mean to disturb ya.” It was difficult to read the laconic mech’s body language. Not only were the broad, simple planes of the Giant’s features unable to convey the tiny shifts of mood and emotion that Jazz was used to, but the shifting energies of his field weren’t much better … powerful, but blank of anything but the broadest brushstrokes of interest or emotion. Even as someone who prided himself on being able to read a mech, regardless of battlemasks or visors, Jazz still found the Giant’s natural poker face a unique challenge to interpret.

This time, however, Jazz was pretty sure what he was seeing was embarrassment. It was obvious the Giant had not expected an audience; the sidelong tilt of that head and the self-conscious shift of his pedes made that quite clear. Walking towards the big mech, Jazz made sure his field held only warmth and appreciation. “That was an amazin’ song. Never heard it before--is it from your world?”

Watching the Autobot approach, the Giant inclined his head. “Yes.” He thought for a moment. “Sing … baby-song.”

“Baby song?” Now close enough that he could talk to the larger mech without shouting across half the cavern, Jazz hooked thumbs into the seam between thorax and hip joints, looking upwards. “Somethin’ like a lullaby, then?”

The Giant tilted his head, obviously researching the human term. After a klik, he gave a somewhat uncertain nod. “... yes? Lull-aby. Baby-song.”

Jazz couldn’t help but feel a surge of pity; a sparkling-song, sung to calm and soothe a new-made mech. Somehow the memory of that song had remained, even when everything else familiar had been locked away. It was probably all the big mech had left to remind him of home.

“I understand,” he said gently. “I can leave if ya want, but … would ya mind if I listened?” A song like that deserved to be heard. To be remembered by more than just a single spark.

The Giant regarded Jazz for a moment. Then, after a glance over at the waiting bulk of the silver trailer and the empty cavern beyond, he nodded solemnly. “O-kay.”

Settling back, Jazz shuttered his optics as the song began again, the Giant’s voice thrumming through his frame. He would be late for his check-up, but it didn’t matter. For this, he’d risk the wrath of Ratchet and take his dents like a mech. Some things were more important, and though the others might not agree, something deep inside his spark told him that this was one of them.

 

*********

 

“Hey, Lennox!” Sam called out, flagging the other man down. Lennox didn’t appear to be in too much of a hurry, which Sam hoped meant nothing was exploding or attacking or otherwise in a state of emergency. (Although, with both Wheeljack and Que in residence, Sam was rapidly learning that explosions were part of the natural order of things.)

“Sam? What’s up?” Changing direction, Lennox headed towards him, a laptop tucked under one arm and a M-4 slung over the opposite shoulder. Sam wasn’t quite sure what that particular combination meant, but after over two years working with NEST, had learned that it was often better not to ask.

“Have you seen Bumblebee? Hound’s bringing in Mr. Hughes’ family from the airport, and I kind of wanted him to be there to greet them, since he’s pretty much the friendliest face we have at the embassy right now.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’d ask one of the others to do one of their locator ping-things for me, but I don’t want to bug any of the guys on duty for something this low priority, and everyone else seems to have run off somewhere.”

Lennox shook his head. “Nope, haven’t seen him in at least a couple hours. Want me to put out an APB?”

“Nah, it’s not important. I can do the usual ‘meet and greet’ routine by myself, and I think Hound’s friendly enough for first impressions. I’m just a bit nervous, I guess. These are the first civilians--well, other than Mr. Hughes, anyway--here at the embassy, and I don’t want them to get scared off by any of our more, er--colorful ‘bots before they get a chance to get used to them.” Sam smiled wryly. “I’m probably just freaking out over nothing.” 

“Well, considering these folks lived next door to our resident Giant, I don’t think you have to worry too much about them freaking out,” Lennox replied. “It never hurts to be prepared, though. If anything, you might want to think of this as a dry run. These might be the first civilians to visit the embassy, but I’m sure they won’t be the last. And *I’m* no damn good at making people comfortable, so that’s going to be aaalll you, Mr. Liaison, sir.”

“Gee, thanks. Glad to know you’ve got my back, Lennox.”

“Just telling it like it is, kid.” Lennox tilted his head in the distinctive ‘I’m listening to an earbud’ gesture. “And the gate guys just checked in; Hound’s back. Looks like you’re up.” 

“Great.” Sam wiped his palms on the sides of his pants. He’d met tons of foreign dignitaries and generals. Hell, he worked with the alien ruler of an entire *planet* every single day. (Though Optimus had never stood on ceremony the way some of those lesser bureaucrats had, thank God.) He really should not be this nervous about meeting Hughes’ family. Still, maybe he could call Mikaela in for backup? She didn’t like having to play the ‘pretty secretary’, as she once put it--and boy, that had been one of their more epic fights--but she did have a knack for putting people at ease … 

… but before he could work himself into a total freakout, Hound’s familiar green hood came into view. His Land Rover alt-mode was pretty mundane compared to some of the more flashy Autobots, but in this instance, Sam and Mr. Hughes had chosen substance--and extra passenger seating--over style. Even on the relatively short trip back from the Las Vegas airport, Hound had still managed to acquire a fine coating of road dust. Given that they were trying to keep this visit low-profile to avoid both media and Decepticon attention, however, Sam was definitely not going to complain about Hound’s less-than-sexy appearance. Even if the idea of sending a Lamborghini to pick up their guests--and why the hell the ever-practical, ever-paranoid Red Alert had ever chosen that particular alt, Sam would never know--had been really, really tempting.

The road up to the embassy proper from the perimeter gate was a fair distance, and Hound didn’t appear to be in any great hurry, so it was at least five more minutes before their resident tracker pulled up. Sam gave him a cheerful wave. “Hi, Hound! Glad you’re back. Any problems?”

“Nope. Not even any traffic,” Hound replied as Hughes stepped out from the driver’s side. “Smooth sailing the whole way, as Seaspray would say.” 

“Great!” Sam hurried forward, opening the passenger side door. The woman who emerged smiled at him, dark eyes crinkling upward in a round, motherly face. “Thank you. You must be Sam?” In contrast to Hughes, she was dark-complected and comfortably round, with a long, straight fall of graying hair tied back in a ponytail and a face wreathed in laugh lines. 

“The one and only,” Sam confirmed. “And you must be Mrs. Hughes. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He shook her hand. “I’m glad you could all make it,” he said honestly. “It’s not every day we meet a family that’s kept someone like the Giant a secret for fifty years!” 

“Thank you, Sam. I must admit, while I never doubted Hogarth’s stories about the Giant, after all these years, I’d given up on the idea of actually ever being able to talk to him. Much less a whole mountain full of other robots as well!” 

“Well, we haven’t filled the *entire* mountain just yet,” Hound rumbled, amused. “That might take a few vorn.”

“Well, close enough, anyway.” Her smile turned impish. The rest of the Hughes’ clan had managed to unload themselves from the rear seats, and now a younger version of Mrs. Hughes stepped forward. “Hi Sam, I’m Parvati. And this is my older brother Dean, his wife Sarah, and their new daughter, Annie.” 

“Our very first grandbaby,” Hughes put in proudly as he walked over, slipping an arm around his wife’s waist. 

“Congratulations!” Sam said. “I’m sure the Giant is going to love meeting all of you; he’s definitely turning out to be a people-person. Er, robot.” 

“He’s not the only one, of course,” Hound said. He politely rolled back a few feet to give himself some extra clearance, then transformed, the forest-green armor of his Land Rover alt breaking apart, shifting and reconfiguring. Straightening up into all twenty feet of his normal height, he looked down at them with amused blue optics. 

Sam couldn’t help but notice that Hughes’ son had tightened his grip on the their baby, his wife gasping and shrinking back a little at their first sight of Hound in his mechanoid form. Hound, bless him, continued on, pretending not to notice. “It’s not often the rest of us get visitors, at least of the non-military kind. I for one would love to learn more about human culture and societal structure. Babies, for example, are fascinating. So helpless, but they grow so fast on their own, with hardly any outside inputs at all--”

“--but before we let Hound drag you off for cultural exchanges,” Sam interjected, “We should probably let the Giant know you’re here, since he’s the one you came to see.” He grinned up at the xenobiologist. “Sorry, Hound, you’ll have to wait your turn. Which reminds me--do you have any idea where the big guy is?”

“Oh, of course,” Hound said easily. “He’s at the overlook with the others. About three hundred yards away,” he added for their visitors’ benefit. “Not far at all.”

“Great--no point in having them trek all over the desert looking for him.” Sam fished around in his jacket pockets. “Okay, I know I brought these … aha. Here we are.” Fishing out a bunch of card IDs, he untangled the the clips and began handing them out. “Here you go, just to make you all official.” Mr. Hughes, of course, already had one, as did all the humans that were regulars at the embassy. They were less for identification purposes--the Autobots’ sensory arrays being more than adequate to the task of discerning one human from the next from more than a half-mile away--and more as a last-ditch warning system. 

No matter how careful the Autobots were, accidents happened. All it would take would be a single mech distracted at the wrong time, or a human in the wrong place under massive mechanoid feet. A several-ton mech versus a couple hundred-pound human equaled squish, no matter what planet you were on, and Sam really, really did not want to have to deal with the fallout on that any more than the Autobots wanted to deal with the guilt of inadvertently harming any of the fragile biological sapients around them. Hence the IDs, which Wheeljack had rigged to emit a high-frequency alert anytime an Autobot was within a certain distance. Encoded with its own unique priority-marker, the signal was impossible to block or ignore, slicing through every proximal mech’s normal processing queues. 

It was, Bumblebee had admitted privately, a little bit annoying. But it was a small price to pay for their human friends’ safety. 

Hughes and his family clipped on their new badges without demur (although the baby was exempted due to size and wriggliness), and Sam let Mr. Hughes lead them up the trail to the overlook. After several months of rambling around at the embassy, the older man knew both the mountain and its newest inhabitants quite well, and along with Sam, regaled them with the story of his arrival and the Giant’s welcome. His enthusiasm and Hound’s easygoing manner were infectious, helping to overcome his family’s nervousness. Which was a very good thing, as far as Sam was concerned. The Giant might be gentle, and to Hogarth, an old and trusted friend, but his sheer size tended to intimidate most new arrivals. Given how rambunctious some of the younger Autobots could be (or even some of the older ones--exhibit A: the Ironhide vs. Mojo Incident), the last thing Sam wanted was for Hughes’ family to freak out--

\--and then they rounded the last curve, only to discover that apparently Wheelie and Brains--plus Bumblebee, Bluestreak, and Sideswipe--had already taken care of the problem.

By covering the Giant with graffiti. 

Bright, colorful, *alien* graffiti.

In that moment, Sam made a profound discovery: that he apparently had the previously-unknown ability to screech *exactly* like his mother. “Wh--what the hell … Bumblebee! What do you guys think you’re DOING?”

The Giant looked over at them. Then, spotting Hughes, he smiled, half-shuttered optics tilting upwards. “Ho-garth,” he said. “We found colors.” He lifted a gaudily paint-streaked arm up for their inspection, wiggling multicolored fingers--neon green, yellow, blue and red--at them.

“I can see that,” Hughes said, grinning. Next to him, his wife had a hand over her mouth to hide her smile, her eyes dancing, while the rest of his family looked torn, as if they weren’t sure whether to be appalled or amused. “Was there a particular reason you were looking for, er, colors?”

Bumblebee and the others were also liberally smeared with paint, mostly around the arms and the hands, though Wheelie and Brains were by far the worst. Apparently their contribution to the endeavor had included dipping themselves in the buckets and making ‘paint-angels’ on the broad gray surfaces of the Giant’s armor. “Hey, it’s da Boss!” Wheelie shouted cheerfully from his seat atop one broad gray shoulder. “Sorry, Boss--we were gonna get ‘im scrubbed all clean an’ prettified again before ya got here, but I guess Hound’s faster ‘n he looks.”

“Bumblebee … “ Sam resisted the urge to put a hand over his face. For some reason, it never made the problem go away. “*Why* did you guys suddenly decide to decorate the Giant?”

“Oh, that’s my fault, Sam, sorry about that,” Bluestreak said before Bumblebee or anyone else could respond. “It was just that I was wondering why the Giant was gray, and if he’d always been gray or just chosen to be gray, like I have, because I like this color, you know? Plus it makes it easier to stay hidden, and it doesn’t show dirt as bad, not like Prowl’s white, not that Prowl ever seems have problems with keeping his armor clean and boy, for someone so shiny can he ever sneak up on you, but anyway it just seemed strange to me that the Giant didn’t have any other colors and I wanted to know if he was that way because he wanted to be or maybe because he’d forgotten how to change his armor like everyone else does. And if he did, then maybe we could help him remember how to do it and then he could pick some different colors besides gray for his plating, unless he doesn’t want to of course, but he didn’t really seem to understand what we were talking about. So first we showed him how it’s done, and then Sideswipe went and got the paint to give him some ideas, and then--”

“--I think I get the picture, thank you, Bluestreak,” Sam said dryly. 

“Sorry, Sam,” Bumblebee added, approaching their little group. He crouched down, sheepishly rubbing the back of his helm. Behind him, Bluestreak tried to pretend he was invisible, while Sideswipe perfected his best ‘I regret nothing’ pose. “We knew Hound was bringing in Mr. Hughes’ family, but … well, the Giant seemed to be having fun, and we kept thinking we still had time before you all arrived ...”

“Please don’t worry about it, Bumblebee,” Hughes said, still smiling. “The Giant’s a big mech. If he’s having fun, who am I to stop him? You forget--I’ve got kids of my own. Believe me, I’ve seen worse!” He waved them forward. “Speaking of which … Giant, everyone--this is my family. This is my wife, Anjali; my daughter, Parvati, and my son, Dean. Plus his wife, Sarah, and their new baby, Annie. Everyone, this is the Giant. My very first and best friend.” 

“And these other reprobates are Bumblebee, Bluestreak, Sideswipe, Wheelie and Brains,” Sam added, indicating each of them in turn.

The Giant tilted his head, looking down at the new arrivals. “Fam-i-ly.” There was a resonant quality to the word. The large mech leaned forward, reaching outward with a multicolored finger, and touched Hughes’ son on the shoulder with delicate care. “Dean. Dif-ferent.”

Hogarth nodded. “Yes.” He smiled at his son. “We named him after my stepdad,” he explained to Sam. “He knew the Giant too, and even helped me hide him. But he died a few years back, before the Giant woke up.” He looked up at the Giant, his voice softening. “He was the coolest guy I ever knew.”

Dean the younger shifted his baby daughter a little closer on his shoulder, looking up into those round, white optics, then chuckled. “Damn. I’d seen him in the barn, but--you’re right, Dad. He’s even bigger than I expected!” He reached out, and very carefully ‘shook’ the Giant’s fingertip. “I know I’m not the Dean you knew, but I’m glad I finally get to meet you, sir.” He looked around at the assembled Autobots, smiling helplessly. “Damn. This is just so *cool*.”

Sam grinned. “I know the feeling, believe me.” 

Parvati moved forward, inspecting the outstretched hand, patting the heavily jointed palm, while Mrs. Hughes inspected the paint smears and glyph symbols with the air of someone who was contemplating how best to clean it up. “Wow, look at your *fingers*,” the younger woman marveled, poking at the digits in question. “And your wrist, too ... the joints all look so simple, but they’re really not, are they? Just really well covered by your armor. Can you move them for me, so I can see how they flex?” The Giant obligingly did so, and Parvati peered downward, expertly-bobbed dark hair swinging into her eyes as she twisted to look at them from all angles. “Full range of motion, and look at how the inner parts slide against each other. This is amazing! I’ve never had the chance to see them move before,” she confided to the watching Autobots. 

“Parvati is working on her PhD,” Hughes remarked to Sam. “My girl’s an engineer through and through. Though why she picked robotics is a total mystery, of course.” He gave his daughter a wink, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Of course,” Sam agreed, still smiling.

“So you guys can change colors as well as shapes?” Parvati asked the watching Autobots.

“Oh yeah, pretty much all of us can,” Sideswipe replied easily. “Changing your shape to blend in somewhere doesn’t do a whole lotta good if you can’t change what your plating looks like.” He held out an arm for inspection, and Sam watched in fascination as vivid yellow rippled over the surface, replacing Sideswipe’s usual fire-engine red in seconds. “‘Course, some of us are better at it than others. Bumblebee? Kicks aft at it,” he added, tilting his helm at the mech in question. Suddenly finding himself the focus of all eyes, Bumblebee struck a pose, and his bright yellow armor shimmered into a mottled pattern of tan and gray--a perfect copy of NEST’s digital desert camo.

“Whoa. I’ve never seen you do *that* before, ‘Bee,” Sam said, impressed. 

“The Bee-meister is a mech of many talents,” Sideswipe said, grinning. “He can blend in anywhere. ’Course, that’s what he’s designed for. Why do you think Optimus sent him in to do forward recon, once we got word the Allspark was on Earth? Now Optimus? Optimus is really bad at it. He can change his colors a bit, but nothing like Bee can.” 

“Really? How come?” Mr. Hughes asked.

Bumblebee shrugged. “Primes are made to be noticed,” he said simply. “That’s their function.”

“Hunh. That … explains a lot,” Sam said thoughtfully. He’d always wondered why Optimus had chosen such an eye-catching custom chrome-and-flame job for his alt. Apparently Primes were incapable of being subtle. Who knew?

“So you guys really are perfect chameleons,” Parvati said admiringly. “How does your plating change? Is it a electrical charge, or a chemical reaction, or something else?”

“It’s a bit of both,” Bumblebee said, the roughened edges of his voice audible as he did his best to explain. “The nanites that make up the topcoat over our armor are specialized to resist corrosion and abrasion, and also to provide smooth sliding surfaces along transformation seams and joints. A bit like-” he paused, obviously searching for an Earth parallel, “-like your Teflon, only much more advanced. These particular nanites are also heavily loaded with chromophores, which allow us to designate and change our colors according to personal preference and function. So Sideswipe is red pretty much only because he likes being red; he could be almost any other color he wanted. In fact, for a while he was silver, until his brother got here and took exception to it.”

“--said I was trying to one-up him, the fragger,” Sideswipe muttered. 

“Optimus is the same, more or less,” Bumblebee continued. “Except his coding is geared towards being visible. So even though it’s technically possible, it just doesn’t ever occur to him to change his plating into something less eye-catching.”

“While Bumblebee here is an infiltrator,” Sideswipe added. “It’s his function to blend in anywhere, anytime, even behind enemy lines. The Bee-bot might not be as badaft as me n’ my brother, but even I gotta admit that if he doesn’t want you to, you’ll never ever see him coming.”

“What about the Giant?” Mr. Hughes asked. “Did you guys manage to show him how to do it?”

Bumblebee shook his helm. “I’m afraid not. According to Ratchet and Wheeljack, he does have chromophores, but not many, at least compared to Cybertronians. So far we haven’t had any luck at all triggering them. I’m sure they do something, but whatever it is, changing the color of his plating doesn’t seem to be it.”

“No colors,” the Giant agreed. He didn’t seem to be particularly bothered by the lack, however. 

“It kinda makes sense, when ya think about it,” Wheelie put in, swinging his tire-feet back and forth, occasionally bouncing them against the edge of one shoulder-seam. “Da big guy here doesn’t seem ta have an alt, neither. Somethin’ his size? Hiding’s not gonna work real well. Maybe his species didn’t even bother.” 

“Makes sense, I suppose,” Mr. Hughes said thoughtfully. “Still, that’s kinda too bad. I was looking forward to seeing him in red and blue.” He grinned up at his friend, eyes twinkling.

“Su-perman,” the Giant said happily. He picked up a half-empty five gallon bucket of red paint between thumb and forefinger, offering it to them. “You paint?”

“Ohhh, no.” Sam decided he’d better put a stop to this before it really got out of hand. “I think we’ve all had enough paint for one day, big guy. Time to clean up, guys. Unless you all want to explain to Ratchet why you’ve got bits of latex embedded in the seams of your armor?” 

“Whoa, no need to bring out the big guns,” Sideswipe protested, lifting hands placatingly “Don’t worry, it’ll all scrub off.”

“I hope you’re right, because the Giant’s gonna take a lot of scrubbing,” Sam replied, amused. “And I don’t think Mr. Hughes is going to be the one doing it. I’m sorry about this,” he added, turning to Hughes’ family. “I know this wasn’t what you expected …”

“Are you kidding? This is great; it’s not every day I get to see a car wash where the cars are the ones doing the washing,” Dean said, grinning. “I can’t wait to see what happens next!”


	10. Chapter 10

“Hi, Ratchet,” Mikaela said, giving the medic a casual wave as she headed for the human-sized cubby-slash-kitchenette to make her all-important morning coffee. Working without caffeine was an ugly, ugly thing, and the Autobots had learned quickly to accommodate their human friends’ cravings for the substance. (Wheeljack, always a fast learner, had also learned to keep a stash of chocolate on hand for bribery and stress-relief purposes. Which just proved yet again that Wheeljack was a genius at more than just making things blow up, no matter what anyone else said.)

“Mikaela,” Ratchet returned with a nod, heading into the cavern that housed the main part of the repair bay. Then after a minute, he came back out, faceplates folded into a puzzled frown. “Mikaela--was Wheeljack in here earlier? Or did you see anyone taking any equipment out of the bay recently?”

Mikaela blinked, trying to cudgel her two active pre-coffee brain cells into functioning. “Umm--I don’t think so to the first, and no to the second. Why? Is something missing?”

“You could say that,” he said grimly. “Take a look.”

“Okay …” she wandered to the wide expanse of the cavern mouth, peering inside. Enormous, Autobot-sized tables, several repair cradles, all the usual bits of machinery and tools … wait. “Woah. Did you clean up in here, Ratchet?” Usually the repair bay was full of the rather macabre results of Ratchet and Wheeljack’s salvage efforts. For as long as she could remember, the bay had been strewn with disconnected limbs, chassis, and helms, plus mostly-unidentifiable (although she was working on that) internal components, laid out over every bit of available flat surface as the Autobots scavenged what they could from the dead in order to repair the living.

This morning, however, revealed a med bay with tables almost entirely devoid of parts. There were still a few miscellaneous bits and pieces left behind, but …. Mikaela looked up at Ratchet, a knot of apprehension slowly coiling in her gut. “If you didn’t clean up … then who did?” Between Red Alert’s professional paranoia and NEST’s security, it seemed impossible that anyone would have been able to penetrate the embassy’s perimeter. Much less doing so and managing to steal multiple Cybertronian-sized spare parts, all without being detected. “Maybe Que did it?”

“Perhaps,” Ratchet said grimly. “And if he did, I’m going to make him regret he was ever framed.” He tilted his helm in a way Mikaela knew meant he was comming the others.

“Negative, Ratchet,” Teletraan said aloud to Ratchet’s query, making Mikaela jump. “Neither Que nor Wheeljack has accessed the repair bay in the last twelve point six joors. However, the Giant has accessed the bay twice in that same time frame. Further analysis of camera footage confirms that he has left the main embassy with a great deal of metal that matches the missing parts.”

“What?? Why didn’t you stop him?” Ratchet snapped.

“The Giant’s access is currently unrestricted,” Teletraan replied, unperturbed by Ratchet’s ire. “He is also frequently observed carrying large amounts of metal for consumption purposes. His behavior was well within the bounds of normal allowances.”

“Oh crap,” Mikaela said, looking up at Ratchet in horror. “You mean--the Giant might have been looking for a snack?”

Ratchet’s expression was equally appalled. “He can’t--you didn’t--slag it, Teletraan, I NEED those!” He lunged back down the hallway, transforming as he went. “I need the Giant’s current position NOW, Red! If I lose those parts …”

Mikaela watched Ratchet speed out of sight, sirens blaring, tires screeching against stone as he tore towards the main entrance. “Huh.” She ran a hand through her hair, wondering if she should let the others know. Of course, chances were Ratchet had just broadcast his predicament to the entire base, Sam and NEST included. No--better to let the Autobots sort this out. She’d just be in the way--and more importantly, still lacking her coffee.

*********  


Ratchet headed towards the entrance of the embassy, sirens wailing as both humans and mecha scrambled out of the way. _//How could you lose a mech the size of the Giant, Red? If he eats those parts …!//_ he commed furiously, thinking of Beachcomber, Smokescreen, and all the others, so close to being pulled out of their long, cold stasis … of Ironhide’s spark, exposed and bare and waiting patiently for a new frame. If he lost those vital components to the Giant’s appetite …! He screeched out into the open, throwing himself down the road. 

_//I’ve got him, Ratchet,//_ Sideswipe replied, his comm echoed by location-affirmatives from Red Alert, Prowl, and Bumblebee as they provided more exact coordinates for Ratchet’s quarry. _//Looks like he didn’t go very far--he’s up on the plateau above the embassy.//_

_//Sideswipe--how much has he already eaten? You have to save what you can--//_

_//That’s just it, Ratch. He’s--you’d better get up here, because I’m not sure WHAT he’s doing,//_ came Sideswipe’s reply, suffused with chaotic indicators of puzzlement.

 _//I’ve commed Sam, Ratchet,//_ Bumblebee interjected. _//He’s getting Mr. Hughes--we’re right behind you.//_

Ratchet turned sharply, taking the winding road up to the plateau on the far side of the mountain at speeds more suited to Bumblebee’s alt than his own, dust flying. It took barely a breem for him to surmount the last rise. Sideswipe’s familiar red frame came into view, and Ratchet transformed without slowing down, lunging towards the Giant--

\--only to be yanked to a halt as Sideswipe wrapped a hand around his arm, pulling him backwards. 

“What do you think you’re DOING?” Ratchet hissed, shaking off the frontliner’s grip. “Let go, Sideswipe! I have to--”

“Ratchet, Ratch--just stop for a minute, willya?” Sideswipe pointed at the massive grey bulk of the Giant some sixty yards distant. “He’s not eating your precious parts. In fact, near as I can tell, he’s just … playing with them? Or something.” 

Ratchet stopped. “What??”

Sideswipe gave him a helpless look, lifting his hands in an open-ended shrug. “Take a look.”

Ratchet gave him a fulminating glare, then turned to where the Giant was--kneeling? That broad gray back was turned to them, blocking their view, but the mech seemed to be bent over, staring intently at something on the ground. He walked forward, circling around to get a better look.

Sideswipe was right. A quick scan showed all the stolen parts, without so much as a bolt missing. They had been laid out on a broad expanse of flat ground, each a careful distance from the next. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to where the Giant had placed them, however. They made no pattern that Ratchet could recognize, either symbolic or otherwise, and the Giant didn’t seem to be intent upon doing anything with them once they were on the ground. He just stayed where he was, watching his stolen treasures. After a few moments, he reached out with a careful finger, nudging a disembodied lower-leg unit as if he expected it to do something.

“What the frag?” Ratchet looked back at Sideswipe, then up at the Giant. Regardless of whatever game the Giant was playing, he needed those parts back. The thought of the sheer amount of organic grit and debris that had already infiltrated delicate receptors and unshielded connections was bad enough; some of those parts were irreplaceable! He stepped forward, reaching downward to collect the nearest bit of armor--

\--only to be forced backwards, stumbling as a blunt-fingered hand as large as his entire chassis swooped down to block his path. He scowled up at the Giant, refusing to be intimidated. “Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I *need* those. Move out of the way!”

The Giant shook his head, his jaw and optics set in an oddly stubborn expression. “No.” When Ratchet tried to walk around the blocking hand, he placed his other in the way, curling over the stolen parts protectively. “No,” he said again. “Help fix.”

“If you want to ‘help fix’,” Ratchet said with strained patience, “Then you need to take these parts back to the slagging medbay. Letting them sit out here in the dirt isn’t going to fix anything!”

“No.”

“Fragging--” He switched to comms in exasperation. _//Bumblebee! I need Hughes up here to talk some sense into the Giant. NOW, please.//_

 _//We’re coming, Ratchet,//_ Sam replied. Obviously patched in by Teletraan, his message was typically human, conveying only a single line of simple auditory information, devoid of the modifiers that Cybertronians habitually used. Ratchet scowled, impatiently pinging Bumblebee for an ETA as he continued his standoff with the Giant.

Bumblebee arrived in a cloud of dust less than a klik later, and Sam hopped out of the driver’s side door almost before the yellow Camaro had skidded to a stop. Hughes followed more sedately, climbing out the passenger side. Ratchet transferred his scowl to the elderly human.

“Finally. Tell me you can talk some sense into him, Hughes. Otherwise I’m going to call Optimus and let *him* sort this out.”

Hughes gave the medic a quick glance, but his attention almost immediately returned to the Giant’s kneeling form. “Don’t worry,” he said easily, unfazed by Ratchet’s bad temper. “I’ve got this.”

He walked up to the Giant, reaching out to pat one of the big mech’s protectively curved hands. “Hey, big guy--what’s going on?” 

The Giant tilted his head downwards. “Ho-garth.” He lifted his hand a little, and nudged one of the stolen parts--a helm, thankfully devoid of faceplates, Ratchet noticed--with the tip of one finger. “Many bro-ken. I help fix.” 

“You fix …?” Hughes looked over the field of spare parts, so carefully laid out, and something in his face changed. “Oh.” He laid his own hand next to the Giant’s finger on the dusty curve of the helm. “ Giant--I’m sorry, but that won’t work. All of these pieces--they can’t go back to where they belong. Not anymore. The people these belonged to--they’re dead.”

 _//Go back to where they belong? What the frag does that mean, Ratchet?//_ Sideswipe sent. Ratchet ignored him, vaguely acknowledging the query with _occupied/processing/silence_ , as he watched the scene play out before him.

“Dead?” That enormous helm lifted, the Giant looking at the rest of the parts, lying dusty and unmoving on the ground, confusion filtering into that wide-lapping field. 

“Yes. A long time ago,” Hughes replied. The irony in his answer didn’t escape Ratchet. Given the Giant’s immense age, the Autobots who had died on the Ark had done so relatively recently--just not by human standards. “They can’t fix themselves anymore, Giant. So Ratchet needs to use them to help other Autobots that are still alive. That’s why he needs them back.”

It was a simple explanation, and one that should have been easy to understand. Instead, it seemed to confuse the Giant even more. He picked up a nearby arm-assembly, cupping it in one hand protectively, as if it were an injured petrorabbit. “Ratch-et take … no! Parts belong to-gether.” Ratchet could feel the press of the Giant’s upset, his dismay spiking through his field. Behind him, Bumblebee’s engine revved a little, evidence of his unease. If the Giant’s distress ended up activating defensive subroutines … this could get very messy, very fast.

Hughes, however, didn’t seem to be afraid. He moved closer, around the helm until he stood in front of the Giant, looking upwards at that broad, simple face. “Giant … Giant, you have to listen to me. These parts--they’re not like yours, they don’t fix themselves. I know you’ve seen Ratchet work. This is part of what he does, replacing broken pieces, repairing mecha when they can’t get better on their own. These parts … they don’t mind. I’m sure their owners would be glad they were being used to help other people.” He gave his friend a sad, understanding smile. “Autobots and humans are both a bit more breakable than you are, buddy. Sometimes we need help getting better … and sometimes we just can’t be fixed. I know it seems strange, but that’s just how life is for us.”

The Giant stilled, looking down at his human friend. “Ho-garth … uses parts too?”

Hughes blinked. “Well--not yet, no. I’ve been pretty lucky that way.” He knelt down, and with a grunt of effort, hefted up a processor interlink module in his two hands, turning it over contemplatively. “But I might need fixing too, someday.” He glanced over to where Ratchet still waited, and there was something oddly knowing in the human’s expression. “If that ever happens--believe me, Giant, I’d feel damn lucky to get a human doctor that was even half as dedicated to making people better as Ratchet is.” 

The mech in question resisted the urge to shuffle his feet, a bit embarrassed by the human’s open admiration. It wasn’t as if he was a human medic, after all … repairing organics was far outside his experience, and the idea that Hughes would trust him to try was … well. 

Hogarth continued, without waiting for either Ratchet or the Giant to reply. “You trust me, right?” 

The Giant nodded, obviously still upset, but listening. 

“Ratchet--he’s helped us both so much; he woke you up when no one else could. It’s all right, Giant. You can trust him with this, too.” Hughes looked over to where Ratchet was waiting and waved him over. “Why don’t we help him get all this back inside? Maybe you can even watch for a bit. I’m sure Wheeljack would be happy to explain things too, even better than I can.”

The Giant hesitated, looking down at the part he still held. Then, looking at Ratchet, he slowly extended his hand, uncurling his fingers to offer it to the medic. “O-kay,” he said reluctantly, still uncertain, but obviously willing to trust Hughes’ word. “We fix. To-gether?”

Ratchet bit back the urge to snap at the Giant, even as he took the part. As much as he didn’t want an oversized, metal-eating, parts-stealing mech cluttering up his medbay … there was something in the way the Giant had protected what he’d stolen, as if they were abandoned mechlings. 

“All right,” he said, with an exasperated vent. “You can help fix.” He looked over the scattered bits of metal. “But no more stealing parts. Or eating them! Got it?” The Giant nodded. “Good.” 

Primus. At this rate, his repair bay was going to turn into a daycare. 

Grumbling, Ratchet turned to glare at Sideswipe and Bumblebee. “Well? Those parts aren’t going to walk themselves back to the repair bay, you know. Get to it!”

*********  


The Axalon, as it turned out, was not a small ship. It was no dreadnaught, one of the immense, sky-darkening battle-hulls that Cybertron had once sent to war, but it was no mere shuttle, either. In human terms, Jazz supposed, it would be called a ‘cruiser’, even though the comparison was tenuous at best. In reality Axalon’s size was just shy of the former Ark’s armored bulk and far outmassed any naval cruiser that had ever floated upon Earth’s oceans. 

Which meant that entering Earth’s atmosphere unnoticed, especially now that the humans were aware of their presence and actively watching for Decepticon arrivals, would be next to impossible. There had been a brief discussion on the possibility of leaving the Axalon in orbit, or aiming for a moon landing next to the remnants of the Ark in order to allow the crew to land on Earth in cometary mode. However, with at least two confirmed trines in residence on Earth and the potential for more to arrive at any time, leaving a minimally-crewed cruiser in orbit was just too much of a risk. While Axalon’s defenses could handle the occasional bored Seeker, holding off a coordinated assault was another matter entirely.

So, in the grand Earth tradition of turning lemons into lemonade, Optimus instead had chosen to turn the Axalon’s arrival into a media event. All of Earth’s media networks, from CNN to Xinhua to the National Inquirer, had been informed of the ship’s arrival. While the threat of Decepticon attack still made it too dangerous for most heads of state to attend, there still were more than enough ambassadors, celebrities and high-ranking military officials in attendance to make up for it. The news media had descended into a veritable feeding frenzy at the prospect, and was currently being kept at bay (barely) by fencelines and a one-mile perimeter enforced by both NEST and Nellis MPs. Meanwhile, local law enforcement had been tasked with wrangling the local protesters, wannabe alien-abductees, and hundreds of other spectators, all of them eager for their first glimpse of an alien ship in person. There was also a fair amount of rubbernecking at the tall, gray figure of the Giant, who had decided he wanted to be there to meet the new arrivals as well. Given that this was his first public appearance, the Giant appeared to be handling the attention with his customary aplomb, waving cheerfully at fans and protesters alike.

What the humans would make of the Axalon, Jazz wasn’t sure. This would be the first time a Cybertronian ship had landed peacefully on Earth, after all. But ultimately, despite the security concerns, he agreed with Optimus. There was no stuffing this particular cat back into the bag; better to make their fellow Autobots’ arrival an event, something celebratory and wonderful. Perhaps the sight of the Axalon would rekindle the humans’ own dreams of space exploration. At the very least, if all went well, it would give them an excuse to party, which in Jazz’s estimation was never a bad thing. 

The Autobots, of course, had taken their own precautions. While most of the Earth-based Autobots had turned out to welcome the Axalon, Red Alert and Prowl had stayed behind, with the embassy’s defenses on full alert. Both Sky Spy and Norad were closely tracking the Axalon’s entry into Earth’s atmosphere, and the Xantium was standing by, engines hot, in case the Axalon needed support. In the meantime, Springer and his crew were keeping their weapons at the ready, watching for a Seeker ambush. 

So far, though, there had been no signs of Decepticon activity at all. Either Starscream hadn’t felt sufficiently motivated to harass the Autobot ship on re-entry, or the sneaky fragger had something else in mind. Either way, Jazz resolved to worry about it later as the Axalon came into view, a tiny black silhouette against the blue dome of the sky. 

Cybertronian spaceflight, for the most part, didn’t require the long runways for takeoff and landing that the recently-decommissioned human space shuttles had, but mindful of Optimus’ wishes, Springer was making a long, slow approach anyway, letting the humans get a good look. She was a pretty ship, Jazz had to admit. Her silvery hull might be a bit battered around the edges, pocked by weapons-fire and no longer pristine, but she had been well-designed, and her lines were still clean. Engines glowing white-hot from atmospheric maneuvering, the ship made another wide, graceful sweep about the open patch of desert left clear for landing--Blaster’s doing, Jazz would be willing to bet, the mech never passed up an opportunity to showboat--then dumped the last little bit of momentum and touched down, landing struts unfolding to sink into the hard-packed earth. One of the many advantages of an AI-enhanced vessel was that they took relatively little time to prep for either takeoffs or landings, and the Axalon was no exception, taking only minutes to complete postflight protocols. Then the main hatch spiralled open, and as Optimus and the rest moved forward to greet the new arrivals, a red-and-gold armored form appeared, took in the new planet, and jumped down without waiting for the ramp to extend. 

“Bah weep gra na weep ninny bong,” Hot Rod announced, faceplates spread in a cheerful smile. “We come in peace, dirtlings!” 

Optimus paused, and Jazz spared a moment to be thankful that the human dignitaries were still safely out of earshot. Except for Sam, who facepalmed, and Epps, who was far too inured to Cybertronian insults, thanks to the Wreckers, to do anything other than roll his eyes. Another vivid mech appeared, this time in orange and yellow and minus the brightly painted flames. Making a more sedate entrance, Blaster walked down the newly extended ramp and smacked Hot Rod upside the helm. “It’s ‘earthlings’, ya glitch. Do we have to have another Earth cultural indoctrination seminar? Huh?” 

Hot Rod shook his helm, lifting hands placatingly. “No, no--Earth. Earthlings! Got it!”

Optimus chuckled. “It is good to see you, Hot Rod, Blaster. I’m glad you made it safely.” He stepped forward, extending his hand in a human-style handshake to Blaster, who took it easily. The gesture also allowed their fields to overlap, reflecting the resonances of Optimus’ wry humor and gratitude for their arrival as well as Blaster’s own bright flare of interest and exasperation in an entirely different greeting, one imperceptible to human observers. 

The rest of the Axalon’s crew soon followed, disembarking in no particular order; despite the presence of both Springer and Kup, it was clear this was not primarily a warframe-crewed vessel. Perceptor, for one, wasn’t far behind Springer, his primary, secondary and tertiary optics all visibly readjusting to the wider spectrum of light offered by Earth’s sun. It had been almost a centivorn since Jazz had last encountered the researcher, and he couldn’t help but note the obvious changes that the war had made. The sleek lines of the Perceptor’s frame were now bulked out by heavier armor, his assay mods visibly supplemented by additional weaponry. But his plating was still the same old red and blue, that field just as curious and open as ever, and Jazz couldn’t help but grin as Perceptor beelined straight to where Wheeljack and Ratchet waited, pulling them into a three-way embrace.

 _//Scientists--they certainly don’t waste any time,//_ Jazz sent to Blaster, amused. Even from this distance, he could feel the familiar narrow-banded hum of a multilayered, compressed data transfer as the three mecha shared memories, data and observations, renewing their megavorn-old acquaintance in astroseconds. _//I’m kinda surprised they didn’t just open up and interface on the spot.//_ Explorer-sparked mecha, coded at a spark-deep level to push boundaries and make new discoveries, were more than a little notorious for their willingness to interface. It didn’t matter if it was a new particle, a new star system or a new acquaintance--you just couldn’t keep them from exploring the unknown. And if the unknown was a ‘who’ rather than a ‘what’ …. well, making new friends--or in some more-Decepticonly cases, enemies--was all part of the fun, now wasn’t it?

 _//They probably would’ve, but I made sure to have a little talk with the guys ‘bout the humans’ reproductive hangups,//_ Blaster said wryly. Not that interfacing had anything to do with reproduction for Cybertronians, but exposure to Earth’s internet had taught Jazz that humans associated a lot of things with sex, most of which made no sense whatsoever. _//Glad to see my ‘Earth 101 seminar’ wasn’t a total waste of time, Roddy aside.//_ With a last tightly-layered, intertwined burst of affectionate glyphs to Optimus, Blaster headed over to where Jazz waited, leaving Optimus to deal with a newly-disembarked Springer, Grapple and the rest. He stuck out his hand again, grinning. Jazz clasped it, then pulled the much-taller mech down into a human-style bear hug, affectionately back-slapping Blaster with the resounding clang of metal on metal. 

“It’s good ta see ya, my mech,” he said, letting his field reflect just how much Blaster had been missed. “How’s the mob?”

A bit startled at the alien greeting, Blaster was too adaptable to let him throw it for long--after a nanoklik, he returned the hug with interest, making Jazz’s armor creak with his enthusiasm. “Tucked up right n’ tight, of course, but eager to get out n’ cause trouble.” Which wouldn’t happen, Jazz knew, until they were someplace less exposed to both human cameras and Decepticon attack. Blaster released him and stepped back, looking his friend over. “And I see you’re no longer half the mech ya used ta be--do I spy Ratchet’s fine work on those welds?” He poked an exploratory finger at the smaller mech’s repaired thorax, which Jazz batted away.

“Yep, he patched me up good,” Jazz confirmed. “Took ‘im a while--we’ve all been running on the raggedy end of the supply chain since we landed--an’ it’s gonna take a few vorn before autorepair stops sendin’ me pain-residuals, but all things considered, I’m a lucky bot.”

“I’d say.” Blaster rapped Jazz none-too-gently over the helm with folded knuckles. “What were you thinking, tackling *Megatron* of all mecha like that?”

Jazz took the hit, ducking his head ruefully. He and Blaster both might have started out as civilian frametypes, but hundreds of vorn of war had turned them all into soldiers, whether they liked it or not. That still didn’t mean you went up against the likes of the former Lord High Protector of Cybertron--especially without Primely backup or a helluva lot more firepower than Jazz had ever possessed--expecting to come out still in possession of all of your limbs. Or your spark, for that matter. 

“I was thinkin’ that we were fightin’ for the Allspark, Blaster,” he said, suddenly serious. “An’ I was thinkin’ that we had a very small, very squishable human tryin’ to get that Allspark away from Megatron, and that anythin’ I could do to keep Megatron distracted from said human? Was worth it.” He shrugged. “Though I’ll admit gettin’ up close and personal with the Slagmaker was prob’ly not the best idea I’d ever had.”

“Yeah. I’m thinkin’ that’s a--what do the humans call it? That one’s a contender for a Darwin award.” Blaster poked at his thorax again, then clasped Jazz’s shoulder and shook it a little. “Good thing Ratch is so good at savin’ us from ourselves.”

“Ya said it.” That Ironhide’s spark still lived was proof enough of that. “C’mon, let me introduce you to Sam and the others. You guys are gonna have a lot to talk about.” Jazz gestured at the two humans standing fearlessly in the midst of a growing huddle of Cybertronians as Optimus performed introductions. Many--especially Hoist, Grapple and other, more practical-minded mecha--merely made their greetings and then headed away to reunite with old friends. Others, however, were obviously more fascinated. Hot Rod, especially. Ignoring a bristling Bumblebee, he had crouched down to poke an exploratory finger at the two humans. 

“So tiny!” he exclaimed. “How can your species even *think* with such tiny little processors?” 

Blaster groaned. 

“I’m gonna tie Hot Rod’s vocalizer in a fraggin’ knot, I swear,” he muttered. Jazz chuckled. 

“Don’t worry, Optimus is too smart to let him near the human dignitaries. An’ I can guarantee Sam and Epps have heard a lot worse from Roadbuster and his crew.” Now that Springer was on Earth, maybe he’d be a restraining influence on his Wreckers. Though somehow Jazz doubted it. 

“True enough. And--oh look. Perceptor’s headin’ straight for your big friend.” Sure enough, the researcher was making his way towards the Giant, with Wheeljack, Ratchet, and Seaspray in tow. Blaster grinned, his visor glinting in the sun as he turned his helm to watch the little band of scientists. “How did I know that was gonna happen?”

“Because your mob does exactly the same thing whenever they see something shiny?” Jazz replied dryly, but obligingly redirected them toward the Giant as well. “‘Sides, you can’t tell me you’re not curious about the big guy. He’s been something of a nine-day wonder ‘round these parts.”

“Well, duh. But I wasn’t going to interrogate the poor mech,” Blaster said. 

“Not when you could have Perceptor do it for ya?”

“Exactly!”

It didn’t take them long to get within audial range of the group clustered around the Giant’s massive pedes. Seaspray was deep in conversation with Mr. Hughes, while Perceptor appeared to be doing his best not to explode in sheer scientific glee as he inspected the Giant from every angle, sensory arrays and all three pairs of optics spiralled wide to capture every possible scrap of observational data.

“This is a truly extraordinary find, Wheeljack, and a most serendipitous one, indeed! To find a such an ancient specimen of a mechanoid species, on a planet so dominated by organic life--I do not believe I have ever heard of such an occurrence before.”

“He’s pretty cool, yup,” Wheeljack agreed, rocking back on his pedes to tilt his head up at the Giant, vocal indicators flashing a cheerful violet. The Giant obligingly crouched, lowering his massive chassis downward to inspect the new arrivals more closely. 

“His core temperature doesn’t seem to be significantly below the ambient--oh, I see what you mean. Yes indeed, he is extraordinarily ‘cool’,” Perceptor said, looking up into white optics. “So expressive, as well--I’ve never seen a chromatic range like this before. And with such a delicate touch in field-manipulation! Is it instinctive or deliberate, I wonder?” He tilted his helm, and Jazz could feel the subtle meshing of fields as the researcher extended his own, scanning at the same time. “Such nuanced high-frequency bursts--you *are* doing that deliberately, correct?” 

The Giant nodded. “Find colors,” he rumbled happily. 

“Which presupposes you lost them at one point, I would assume? How fascinating! This is something worthy of careful study indeed. Perhaps in time we can even learn to decipher your dialect, so that we might converse properly.”

Jazz glanced over at Ratchet and Wheeljack; but they seemed as clueless as he was, glancing between each other and an oblivious Perceptor in confusion. He looked over his shoulder at Blaster, who lifted his hands in an open-ended shrug. 

“Your guess is as good as mine, dude. I’ve got no idea what Perce is goin’ on about.”

Jazz sighed. Why was it always up to him to ask the obvious questions? “Perce, what the Pit are ya talkin’ about? What colors?” He double-checked, just in case the Giant had suddenly decided to change the color of his plating … nope. Still gray as gray could be.

“Why, his colors, of course,” Perceptor replied, waving a hand to indicate the Giant. When the others did nothing but give him uncomprehending blank stares, he added impatiently, “Surely you have noticed his field? Unless … yes, perhaps standard ranges are the problem?” Perceptor tilted his helm, analyzing the discrepancies. “If all of you refine your optical range to between 200 to 300 picohertz, increase sensitivity 6000% from standard, and optimize for plasma oscillations and molecular rotation, it should become obvious." 

“His what?” That was from Hughes, who had joined the ranks of the confused, if the human’s face was any indication.

“Well, yeah, he’s got a field,” Jazz said carefully, not sure where the scientist was going with this. “But it’s not like he does much with it--” He glanced over, automatically shifting his optical parameters as Perceptor had directed--and stopped short. “Whoa! When did he start doin’ all that?” And how the Pit had he missed it? 

“I take it he hasn’t always been so colorful?” Blaster said wryly, obviously doing his own scans.

“Nope. When we first met him, he was pretty blank. He started adding a few variances in once he’d been at the embassy a while, but I’d assumed he was just pickin’ up a few tricks from us.” The Giant’s field now, though, was a far cry from that eerie, empty blankness; what had once been static, washed out colors that had only hinted at emotion was now full of life, ebbing and flaring in intricate patterns and bands. Jazz tilted his head, trying to decode what he was seeing. There were a few shifts in hue that were obviously analogous to Cybertronian cues--an obvious swath of good humor, tinged with patient amusement, if he was any judge--but there was a whole lot of other jumbled combinations in there that defied interpretation. 

“Okay, Perce, I think I’m seein’ what you’re seein’, though it looks pretty confused to me.” Jazz looked up, meeting white optics. “I think we need to teach ya how to unscramble your field, big guy,” he told the bigger mech easily.

“Unscramb--Jazz. Do not let presumptions obscure your observations. Can you not see the patterns?” Perceptor reached upwards, as if he could comb his fingers through the broad flares of that field. “This--all of this--is deliberate, is it not, my friend?” 

The Giant nodded.

Perceptor turned back to the other assembled Cybertronians, beaming. “He isn’t confused. He is *communicating*!”

“Eh?” Ratchet glanced at the Giant, then at Perceptor.

“Uh--guys? Mind telling me what’s going on?” Hughes said, frowning a little. “I’m not seeing any of these colors that you’re talking about.” He moved a little closer to the Giant, placing a weathered hand on the big mech’s pede protectively. 

“Not seeing--oh yes! I do sympathize; organic optics can be rather limited in their range, can they not?” Perceptor said, undeterred by the skeptics--human and Cybertronian--around him. “Perhaps if we compress the data down into human-visible wavelengths, and increase the intensity? Hound should be able to replicate it easily, I would think …”

A quick ping, and Hound ambled over, giving Blaster and the other new arrivals a welcoming wave. “What’s up, Perceptor?”

“Hound, may we impose upon you to project a modified visual representation of the Giant’s field? We’ll have to compress the range down into a spectrum visible to organic optics, of course, so we will have to make do with an approximation rather than a direct translation. Given the magnitude of this discovery, however, I believe Mr. Hughes will forgive our scientific inaccuracy.” 

“Sure,” Hound replied easily. “That’d be no problem at all.” He looked the Giant over, doing a few scans of his own even as Perceptor sent him the data the researcher had already collected. Perceptor was equipped for detailed observations on a scale that none of the other assembled mecha could even dream of, and the better the data Hound had to work with, the better the resulting holoprojection. “Hmm … very nice sets, Perce, thanks. All right, here we go …” Hound turned to the Giant, activating his holoemitter in order to recreate what Perceptor had seen. The air around the Giant’s gray frame shimmered, wavering--

\--then bloomed into a brilliant corona of color and light. 

Hughes sucked in his breath in surprise, startled by the intensity of the lightshow. Even Jazz had to admit he was impressed; Perceptor’s scans had obviously picked up an immense amount of detail that Jazz’s own more mundane sensory arrays had missed. It was those details that Hound now faithfully reproduced, the softlight projection ebbing and flowing in a vivid aurora around the Giant’s frame. Every Cybertronian was used to registering fields, of course; the broad swathes of resonances and hue that conveyed emotion and subtext, the mechanoid equivalent to human body language. But the Giant’s field was far more complex, with intricate fractal blooms of color, tiny firespark bursts of light and shadow all overlaid on an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of background hues--scarlet reds, sapphire blues, sun-bright yellows, and every color in between--that was almost dizzying to watch. 

“Wow …” Hughes breathed. “You’re doing all this?” he asked the Giant, who nodded.

“Colors impor-tant.”

“That’s *amazing*,” Hughes said admiringly, stepping backwards to get a better look. He wasn’t the only one, Jazz noticed. Hound’s holoprojection had caused a rising murmur of surprise and interest from the distant human spectators. There was an accompanying cascade of associated clicks and flashes from digital cameras as they all turned to focus on the lightshow, and several of the Autobots proved susceptible to the distraction as well, rubbernecking with varying degrees of interest and curiosity.

“After you sent me the Giant’s scans, I wondered about his truncated vocal capacity,” Perceptor was explaining happily to Ratchet and Wheeljack. “Old damage or other structural factors could have been the cause, of course, but I saw no evidence of that in the preliminary data. This led me to hypothesize that perhaps the Giant’s species did not primarily use audible signals in order to communicate. Cybertronians use comms and glyphs in addition to vocalized speech, after all, and there are several organic species who communicate primarily by way of olfactory markers, just as a singular example. Neither of which seems to be applicable in this instance, of course, but with further study--”

Registering the rising sub-channel hum of interest from the other Autobots as they relayed Perceptor’s observations, Jazz ignored it in favor of the puzzle in front of him. “So you think his species uses their fields as--what, the big mech equivalent of morse code, Perce? Flashy lights? Giant robot texting? ‘Cause I’m pretty good at pattern recognition, and so far I’m not seeing anything that resembles one in there.” He softened his skepticism with wry affection, extending his own field to show the Giant he didn’t mean it personally. “‘Course, I’m nowhere near as good as my main mech here. Blaster, you gettin’ any hits?”

Blaster was practically vibrating with interest, leaning forward to sample as much of the Giant’s field resonances as he could. But he shook his helm. “Nothing so far--sorry guys. If there are any symbols in there, I’ve got no references for anything like ‘em.”

That wide-lapping field changed, suffused with warm saffron around the edges, and the assembled Autobots could feel the Giant’s patient amusement. “Colors impor-tant,” he said again. And deliberately opened a comm to them all, sharing a rapid sequence of Earth imagery--Monet, Rothko, Kadinsky, Pollack, painting after painting with no glyphs, many with no figures or grounding at all, just color upon color upon color … 

“No num-bers. Just light,” the Giant said simply, looking down at Hughes. “Colors.” He spread his simple four-fingered hands outward, as if encompassing all of them. “Light. Dark. They go on … for-ever.”

*********  


With Megatron’s defeat, the Autobots had settled down on Earth, determined to make it their new home. The Decepticon withdrawal, however, did not make them complacent; with both the ever-vigilant Red Alert and Prowl in residence, Ratchet doubted that was even possible. The Autobots had done their best to ensure that every security precaution that could be taken--at least, without totally isolating the embassy--had been taken. As a result of the combined efforts of Wheeljack, Que, and the Wreckers, Sky Spy was operational, and with Teletraan-1 synced up with both human military networks and the quietly-expanding Cybertronian ones, there were very few places on Earth inaccessible to Autobot surveillance. That, in addition to the guard rotations, fixed defenses, and any number of nasty surprises (courtesy of Special Ops), had solidified the Autobots’ hold on their adopted home. Attacking the embassy might not be suicide, but any Seeker who tried it was guaranteed to get their tailfins shot off, at the very least.

Which didn’t mean that the Autobots were stupid enough to assume they had eliminated the threat of Decepticon attack. Any Autobot who ventured out alone was potentially at risk, and Ratchet had been a high-value target for most of the war. He was used to it--and to refusing the guardians that Optimus had tried to assign, even before there had been so few Autobots left that there was no way to keep even the noncombatants from the battlefield. So Ratchet was used to going where he was needed, and doing what needed doing, and occasionally Decepticons would make a play for the Autobot’s legendary medic--only to find out the hard way that Ratchet was just as capable of dismantling mecha as he was at putting them together. 

What he had failed to realize, though, was how much the humans--and the Giant--had changed all the normal rules of engagement. And for that, Ratchet could only blame himself.

Their little group hadn’t actually been far from the embassy. They had ended up only a few miles away, down on the lower northeastern face of Yucca Mountain. The field excursion had become necessary once it became obvious there was simply not enough room inside the embassy, not if Hound and Cliffjumper were to show off both their transformative abilities and their alts. Ratchet, for his part, was there to play lecturer and provide explanations (carefully edited down to accommodate Earth’s current tech level) to their human guests. 

The visit had been inspired by Hughes’ daughter. After her visit to the embassy, Parvati had returned to MIT and promptly begun a crusade to open up official scientific exchanges between the university and the Autobot embassy. Who could possibly be better suited to teach them about robotics, after all, than the giant robots themselves? Her cause had proved popular among her fellow graduate students and robotics professors, all of whom joined the call for access. It had taken six months of bureaucratic wrangling, hoop-jumping and red tape, but in the end, MIT had agreed. 

The resulting infighting between the various department heads and associated research labs about who would be allowed to go had been epic and bloody--in the very literal sense, for Ratchet had been informed that there had been at least one bout of fisticuffs involved between two prominent and very elderly tenured professors. In the end, thanks to Parvati, the mechanical engineers had won first dibs, and MIT’s Robotic Mobility program ended up first in line. Which is how Ratchet had ended up playing nursebot to a group of wide-eyed and very enthusiastic humans in the middle of the Nevada desert as they watched Hound and Cliffjumper show off. 

It was hard to tell who was more gleeful, the graduate students or their professorial mentors, but ideas were flying faster and more furiously than any Seeker. And while many of those proposals were amusing in their naivete, there were some that were surprisingly innovative in their thinking. Ratchet had never had the same steadfast faith in the humans that Optimus had; he had never needed to. He believed in his Prime, and that was enough. Still … it had been a long time since Cybertronians had discovered an organic species as aggressively adaptable as their own. And while humans might not be able to transform their frames as Autobots did, Ratchet was starting to think that they might very well transform their little corner of the universe, if given half a chance.

The Giant had decided to accompany them as well. Not only was the big mech was well-used to rambling about the embassy environs at this point, he had also developed more than a little proprietary fondness for Hughes’ extended family. His presence was surprisingly useful, both as a walking, talking example of non-transforming alien tech and in helping to put some of their more skittish visitors at ease. As enthusiastic as they were, no human was likely to forget the destruction of Chicago anytime soon, and the Giant’s simple, distinctively non-Cybertronian appearance often helped a great deal in soothing those fears. Once the humans in question overcame their initial fear of being stepped on, anyway.

Despite all their precautions, they had little enough warning. The Giant was the first to notice, his head snapping upwards, optics widening as his field flared neon-bright with alarm. Registering that flare, Ratchet broke off in mid-word, the first tingle of foreboding sparking along his internals. An astrosecond later, Red Alert’s emergency-priority comm blared through their channels, overriding normal comm chatter and layered in urgent signifiers of warning/alarm. _//Ratchet/Hound/Cliffjumper: we have incoming--two Seekers just outside of--//_

\--and then space twisted in an dizzying wash of transdimensional energy, and Skywarp was on them.

The Autobots were already moving, Hound and Cliffjumper abandoning their maneuvers and closing ranks towards Ratchet. But Skywarp had teleported at speed; banking hard, he used that momentum, his engines an audial-shattering roar as he mounted his attack against the two ground-bound Autobots. Ratchet saw Cliffjumper go flying, side armor cratered by a devastatingly accurate plasma shot. Hound veered off in the opposite direction, doing what he could to try and draw the Seeker’s fire.

As much as he wanted to go Cliffjumper’s aid, Ratchet knew where his duty lay. If any of their civilian guests died … he spun on one pede, taking the few short strides to the huddled group of humans.

“Listen to me!” he barked to the cringing, panicking professors and students, amping the volume of his vocalizer to cut through the thunder of explosions and cannon-fire. Transforming was the work of seconds; once in his alt, he threw open all his doors. “All of you, get inside! Move!” The terrified humans didn’t argue, scrambling for the safety of his passenger and rear bays, climbing inside with frantic haste. It was a tight fit--Ratchet’s alt had never been designed to hold nine humans--but adrenaline proved enough to overcome the limitations of the space, the humans cramming themselves in like sardines. The last was barely inside before Ratchet slammed his doors shut, peeling out in a cloud of dust. 

_//Run!//_ he ordered the Giant, pushing every bit of authority he had into the word. What had they been thinking, letting the big mech out into the open like this, especially with fragile organics nearby? If Skywarp’s attack triggered his battle protocols …. _//Get to the embassy, Giant--that’s an order!//_

The tacnet flowered into life, Ratchet distantly welcoming Prowl’s dispassionate calm even as he cringed at the damage reports from Hound and Cliffjumper. Nothing fatal, not yet--but Cliffjumper was offline, and with Skywarp on their afts, two other Seekers inbound and backup still at least a half-breem away, their odds of survival were dropping rapidly. Ignoring the panicked cries of the humans he carried, he pushed his engine to the limit, into speeds that the Earth vehicle he resembled would never have been able to achieve. He knew a grounder stood no chance of outrunning an airframe, but he had to try, had to hope that Hound and Cliffjumper could keep Skywarp busy long enough for him to get the humans to safety--

\--and then Ratchet lost even that hope as a blast hit him full on, scorching his plating and sizzling through his circuits. _//Prowl--Skywarp’s fragging got null rays! What the fra--//_ Transformation hadn’t been in the cards before, not with all the humans he had aboard--now he couldn’t even if he wanted to. Another blast--this one knocked him off his wheels entirely, the humans screaming as he tumbled sideways, his systems all desperately trying to compensate for the crippling charge of the null-blast, warning flags piling up as system after system dropped past minimal functionality.

 _//We’re coming, Ratchet,//_ Optimus’ voice was calm, though Ratchet could feel the focussed determination behind the words, the unspoken support of the others as they mobilized, joining the tacnet in a practiced cascade. 

_//ETA for reinforcements: two kliks,//_ Prowl added, sorting and handling the frantic flurry of battle-data with customary aplomb, neatly partitioning the chaotic comm-chatter.

 _//Skywarp’s going after Ratchet, Optimus!//_ Hound called, his glyphs broken at the edges, interrupted with damage-indicators. _//He’s not even trying to finish us off--Ratchet’s the primary target!//_

Primus on a fraggin’ pogo stick--could things get any worse? Ratchet frantically tried to reroute, applying patches to damaged systems, cutting off nonessentials in an attempt to become at least marginally mobile. The damage, though, was interfering with self-repair as well as his higher processes, the null-ray residuals making it difficult to process as efficiently as he normally would. The only reason he was still even online was due to the resiliency of a medic’s frame, which had been designed to safely absorb energy spikes from damaged patients. Right now, though, that was a cold comfort indeed. 

He saw Skywarp bank, engines screaming, to make another run and knew Optimus would never arrive in time. Ratchet hardened his outer armor as much as he could, taking pain receptors offline and steeling himself against the next attack--

\--only to have all this sensors muffled, the sky turning dark, as the expected impact never came. His frantic scans registered only metal--metal all around them, so thick that Ratchet could only distantly able to sense Skywarp’s distinctive energy-signature, and for a fraction of an astrosecond, he had the sudden, ridiculous thought that they had somehow fallen into one of Cybertron’s ancient caverns, surrounded by layer upon layer of metal, filums thick. Then his higher processors caught up with the analysis, and he realized the truth. The metal above them was alive--and it belonged to the Giant. A Giant who was not escaping as he had been told.

 _//Giant! What do you think you’re doing?? Get out of here before you get hurt!//_ Ratchet barked, backing up his comm with every Earth-image he could find that meant 'danger’, trying to reinforce that imperative. The massive frame over them didn’t move, curling tighter instead. Ratchet belatedly realized the Giant was crouched turtle-like over Ratchet’s incapacitated alt, his helm tucked and arms and legs folded protectively to either side, trying to leave as few openings as possible. There was the distant scream of missiles, and that massive frame jerked. Ratchet could hear the dull booming as they impacted upon the Giant’s backplates. _//Please, Giant!//_ he pleaded, frantic. The big mech wasn’t fighting, wasn’t even looking at his enemy, his helm tucked under and optics tightly shuttered, but who knew how long the Giant could keep his battle-protocols in check?

 _//Not fight. Keep safe,//_ was the Giant’s stubborn reply, the English words accompanied by pictures--suits of human armor, fragile Earth-mollusks huddled safe within their bright-hued shells. More impacts, this time closer, louder; Skywarp was obviously using larger ordnance in an attempt to dislodge the big mech. The Giant shuddered in reaction, his metallic groan resonating through Ratchet’s frame. The Giant wasn’t linked to the tacnet, Ratchet couldn’t access his damage reports without a hardline--but it was obvious that the big mech’s armor, as formidable as it was, did not make him invulnerable.

 _//Optimus, Prowl--we need backup here NOW. The Giant’s not leaving! If he loses it--//_ Ratchet didn’t normally make a habit of shouting at his Prime, but given the circumstances, he thought a little extra volume was justified as another rapid-fire series of impacts *boomed* against the Giant’s armor and shook the ground beneath them. 

_//We’re almost there, old friend.//_ Optimus’ reassurance was laden with worried modifiers he couldn’t hide. _//But so are Thundercracker and Acid Storm. Hold on, all of you--we’re coming as fast as we can.//_

//I’m even closer than that--and coming in hot, Optimus.// Springer’s comm was strong, the rest of the Wreckers pinging in with their positional data, confident and eager. _//Don’t worry, we’re used to Seekers. Those fraggers won’t know what hit them.//_

His sensors deadened by the double-thickness of the Giant’s armor, Ratchet had to rely on the tacnet to see Springer’s arrival. The veteran triplechanger dropped out of the sky in his new Earth alt--an AS565 Panther--like a gleeful Grim Reaper. He fired on Skywarp, forcing the Seeker to break off his attack, even as one of the Axalon’s shuttles disgorged the rest of the Wreckers. Roadbuster, Topspin and the others were firing even before they landed, adding their fire to Springer’s as they set up a defensive line. Thundercracker and Acid Storm were now in play, Ratchet registered distantly. Damage reports piled up, the field of battle expanding, shifting both outward and upward as the Seekers pounded away at the defending Wreckers. Even under the Giant’s sheltering bulk, the roar of nearby weapons-fire was deafening to the point where Ratchet had to damp his inputs and caused the frightened humans to cry out at each new explosion.

Then Optimus came within weapons’ range, along with a full complement of the Autobot frontliners, including Kup and Hot Rod. That proved the tipping point--Thundercracker apparently deciding that even two-thirds of the Command Trine wasn’t going to take on the Wreckers *and* Optimus without backup. The battle ended as abruptly as it began, all three Seekers piling on the thrust to retreat at supersonic speed, disappearing from sensor range in seconds.

For a nanoklik, silence reigned. The Giant shifted, cautiously lifting his helm--and then fell to one side with a rumbling groan, his chassis impacting against the ground with an audial-shattering crash.

“Frag--” Ratchet’s systems still weren’t at a hundred percent, but he had rerouted enough to regain transformation capability--and there were patients out there that needed him. A quick scan verified that none of the humans inside him had suffered more than minor abrasions and contusions from being knocked about. He sent an urgent comm to Blaster: Flipsides would need to put band-aids over the humans’ bumps and bruises. Ratchet had bigger things--and mecha--to worry about. “Optimus--take custody of the humans, I need--” 

“I understand, old friend,” Optimus replied, his resonant voice soothing. “Everyone--it is safe now. If you could all disembark from Ratchet, I promise that we will protect you.” Their human visitors were understandably dubious, alternating between adrenalized excitement and fear, but after a few moments of Primely convincing, Ratchet was finally free of his passengers and able to transform. He wasted no time in doing so, staggering as he stood up on his pedes, gyros still recalibrating. Cliffjumper was offline, but stable--he would need some major repairs, but nothing that required priority attention. Hound was also banged up, but had gotten off fairly lightly, considering he’d been up against no less than three Seekers. But the Giant …

… the Giant had taken the brunt of Skywarp’s attacks, and it showed. The big mech’s armored chassis was still intact--scorched beyond belief, and still smoking in a few places, but amazingly free of fissures or impact cratering. But the rest of him hadn’t been so lucky--one pede had been blown clean off, the fingers of another hand scattered across the desert in smoking sections, and other, smaller pieces lay even further away. The Giant was obviously dazed, his optics half-shuttered as he lay on his side. Which a low rumble, he tried to push himself upright, digging at the ground with what remained of his truncated hand. 

Ratchet hurried over. “Easy, big guy,” he said briskly, running scans on the damage. The lines of damage were clean--that would help when re-attaching new limbs. “Don’t try to get up just yet. Let me figure out what I need to fix first.” Wheeljack and Que arrived in a cloud of dust and twinned alts, transforming and rushing forward. “Que--you’re on parts retrieval. Wheeljack--help me lift this … whoah!”

The Giant had lifted his helm, obviously fully online once more. That, Ratchet had expected. He hadn’t expected a previously-hidden transformation seam to iris open atop that domed helm, however, or for a small telescoping antenna topped by a brilliant blue-white comm beacon to emerge. The beacon strobed, emitting repeated comm-pulses strong enough to nearly flatten the nearest mecha. Wincing, Ratchet frantically damped down his receivers, even as all the other nearby Autobots did the same.

“Giant, what the frag do you think you’re …?” The comm-pulses seemed to double, an odd echo reverberating back to the source. Then they tripled, quadrupled--Ratchet lost count, staggering backwards for badly-needed distance … only to stop at a tiny metal _*tink*_ as something knocked against his pedes. 

Already off-balance, he looked down, and took in the sight of a disembodied, Giant-sized finger-joint. Lit up by a tiny blue pulse on one end, it was rocking back and forth, knocking blindly against his armor. With a surreal sense of calm, Ratchet stepped to one side. The finger-section promptly rolled forward, homing in on its owner, over divots and flattened brush, until it reached the Giant’s damaged hand. Once there, a miniature transformation took place, sections sliding backwards, tiny struts and connectors extending, connecting and sealing, the finger-section pulling itself into place. And it wasn’t the only one--every single damaged part, large or small, was moving, rolling, hopping, or wiggling its way determinedly back to its owner, putting themselves back together, socketing into place. 

Autobots and humans alike watched, dumbfounded, as the Giant reached down, assisting those few parts that couldn’t quite make it on their own. Extending his damaged leg so that the wandering pede could reconnect, the Giant watched calmly as armor extended back over the bared struts, the newly reconnected conduits and tensors, the pede reattaching itself cleanly. Moments later, only scorch marks remained to show it had ever been blown off in the first place.

“What. the. frag?” That was from Sideswipe, who was peering at a laggardly little screw still rolling its way back to the Giant. “Ratch … what the--how the--?”

“Hunh.” Bumblebee pushed back his battlemask, his field bright with commingled curiosity and humor. “Well, now we know why he took your parts on a walkabout, Ratchet.”

“...a species that can repair itself,” Wheeljack said slowly, vocal indicators strobing with excitement. “You, my friend, are one amazing mechanism!” He reached out to touch, then to tug on the Giant’s newly re-attached fingers as the big mech looked on, bemused. Ratchet started to protest--then, as Que joined in on the impromptu experiment, shook his helm in resignation, throwing up his hands.

“I have no idea how you did that,” he told the Giant, “and right now I don’t care. If you can’t listen, at least you’ve made sure I have one less idiot to fix.” He turned, stomping away to attend to the rest of the injured. “All right. Next!”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for nonexplicit mentions of infanticide, non-mammalian mechpreg. Many thanks as always to Fractalserpent and White Aster, who are the awesomest of betas!

In the wake of the attack, the atmosphere at the embassy was predictably tense, with all the Autobots on full alert. Optimus had called a command-level conference immediately, and with the addition of Springer, Kup, and other senior Autobot staff from the Axalon, the cavern that housed Operations was now a great deal more crowded, filled with bristling and angry mecha, many of them eager to strike back at Ratchet’s attackers. Sam and Epps were both present as well, as Autobot-allied human representatives, and their worry was plain to see.

“This has fucked things up big time, guys,” Sam was saying, drumming his fingers anxiously on the tabletop. Prowl noted that the young human, for all his acquired diplomatic expertise, became a great deal more blunt when dealing only with Cybertronians. No doubt Sam’s tendency to speak his mind had only been encouraged by his association with Bumblebee and the rest; frontliners were notorious for their lack of patience with diplomatic doublespeak, preferring direct action to roundabout words. 

“It’s bad enough that Skywarp made a play for Ratchet. But they also did it on American soil, violated American airspace, and damn near killed a bunch of American civilians in the process. If they’d succeeded--” Sam shook his head, grimacing, “--I don’t even want to think about the fallout. As it is, there’s a whole lotta saber-rattling going on in Congress right now, as I’m sure you guys know. The Pentagon has been sending me hate mail and lists of demands ever since this shit went down. They want to mobilize NEST, they want Starscream’s head on a pike, and they are *this* close--” Sam pinched his fingers a bare fraction apart in superfluous illustration, “--to starting a war with Iran in order to do it.” 

“Technically, didn’t Skywarp attack Ratchet on Cybertronian soil? The mountain bein’ part of the embassy and all that?” Jazz pointed out. Behind that careless facade, however, Prowl could tell the saboteur was worried. The Autobots’ position on Earth was still precarious, and their alliance with the humans even more so. If they retaliated, they risked sparking a war. If they didn’t, they risked the ire of their allies, many of whom were still all too willing to blame Autobots and Decepticons alike for the destruction of Chicago.

“Technically, yeah, they did. But they violated U.S. airspace to do it,” Epps replied. “The Air Force really gets cranky about that sort of thing, ya know? You had a whole lotta high ranking flyboys crapping their pants over that little ambush--and they’re not gonna be happy if you tell ‘em there’s nothing they can do to keep it from happening again.”

“Mearing has been quite vocal on that point as well,” Optimus put in. “And she is correct; Earth’s nations do have the right--and the responsibility--to protect their citizenry.” Optimus’ field was sober, his faceplates folded in concern, and Prowl could feel, as all of them could, the distress of their Prime beating against his plating. “I must also confess to some concern that Starscream’s faction has attacked us so openly. Starscream’s arrogance is legendary, but to send a single trine to ambush Autobots so close to the embassy seems reckless in the extreme.” He turned a troubled look to his senior staff. “If Starscream truly intends to provoke a war between Iran and the United States, we may be forced into conflict whether we want it or not. Is there anything that can be done to defuse this situation?”

“Y’mean other than tearing off Starscream’s wings and making him eat ‘em?” Springer said, optics narrowed. “I still say we need to go after ‘em. Letting the Decepticons establish any kind of position on Earth is stupid, Optimus. It’s not like Starscream has Megatron to hide behind anymore. Let me and my crew go in--we’ll hit ‘em hard and fast and take ‘em out. Let the humans squabble and squawk about territory afterwards--at least we won’t have to worry about Seekers sniping our afts every time they get bored. Or worry that Starscream will decide to start handing over weapons tech to the Earthers, either.”

“I hate ta say it, but Springer’s got a point,” Jazz put in. “The longer we let the Decepticons get dug in, the harder they’re gonna be t’ do anything about later.” He shook his helm. “I know you were hopin’ ta be able ta negotiate, but Starscream’s shown his hand. He doesn’t want peace. He wants Earth as his own personal playground, and he’ll play dirty to get it.”

“There’s something bothering me about all this, though,” Ratchet put in, leaning forward. Prowl noted that while the damage Ratchet had taken from the ambush had largely been repaired, thanks to Wheeljack and Flipsides’ combined efforts, the medic’s plating was still scorched and battered in places. “Why the frag did *Skywarp* have Starscream’s null rays? The power draw on those things is enormous; Skywarp must’ve been draining his tank dry to support them as well as his transwarp capabilities, even for such a short time. And why wasn’t Starscream part of the attack? Since when does he let Acid Storm fly with his trine?”

“It is obvious that Ratchet was the target of this ambush,” Prowl answered, deciding to address the simplest aspects of the situation first. “Moreover, it is highly probable that Starscream ordered Skywarp to take Ratchet alive--hence the null rays. The rationale behind this kidnapping attempt has yet to be determined, though there are several obvious possibilities.”

“They need a medic,” Ratchet put in, frowning.

“That is the most likely, yes.” Pausing for a moment, Prowl considered the data available to him, reflexively discarding assumptions and unsupported conclusions. “Starscream may have been more badly damaged than we believed. It is also possible that one or more of the new arrivals has sustained damage that requires more expert attention. Or their goal may be simply to deprive us of our only fully-framed medic.” He spread his hands in silent illustration of the possibilities. “Regarding Springer’s proposal: tactically speaking, mounting an effective attack will be difficult, but not impossible, especially with human military support. Starscream’s faction now includes three full trines, five helos, and assorted other airframes, including one explorer-class shuttlemech. He has also attracted an unconfirmed number of tankframes and other frontliners. Given our current inability to secure either Earth’s airspace or its orbital territory, however, it is impossible to predict with any certainty how many more will rally to Starscream’s call.” 

“So what yer telling us, Prowl, is that any fight is gonna be a big one. And there’s gonna be collateral damage.”

“Precisely.”

A silence fell over the gathering. “Do we have a better read on where they’re located?” said Springer at last. 

All optics--and eyes--turned to their security chief, who hunched a little lower. “The Takht-e Suleyman Massif,” Red Alert finally said, apparently examining something on the floor.

That gave Springer pause while he accessed and translated the proper portions of the human internet. “*Where* on the massif? Red, I don’t got time to search under every piece of scrap in a thirty-filium radius!”

“You’re beein’ awful cagey, Red,” Jazz commented, watching him closely. Red Alert shifted uncomfortably under the attention. “I would’a thought you’d be first in line to demand we clip Starscream’s wings. Is there somethin’ going on we should be worryin’ about?”

“I--” Red Alert glanced at Prowl, somewhat shamefaced. “Sky Spy picked up on something. At first I thought they might just be drones, and I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure what it was, and whether it was a threat. But …” Red Alert, Prowl noticed with belated alarm, was actually fidgeting, his field suffused with conflicted apprehension. The Autobot security chief hadn’t suffered a significant code-glitch in quite some time, not after Smokescreen had taken him in hand and he’d settled into his new duties as Optimus’ head of security. But right now he seemed closer to a major code conflict than Prowl had seen in centivorn. “I--” Red Alert vented harshly. “Teletraan-1, bring up the tagged images from Sky Spy.”

Multiple images shimmered into three-dimensional life in the holotank. Some were moving, while others were single frames, caught between one moment and the next. All of the pictures, however, were a far cry from their Earth counterparts, with the crystalline clarity and wealth of associated field-data characteristic of Cybertronian imaging technology. And what they showed, in image after image, from multiple angles, were--

Sam was squinting up at the holotank’s display. “What are those? Drones? Some kinda minibots like Wheelie?”

“Primus,” Ratchet said softly, optics spiralled wide. The tiny figures were half-hidden more often than not, almost invisible against the bulk of the far larger airframes around them, tucked behind engine mountings, or beneath wings and pauldrons. But there was no mistaking the shape of them, the characteristic movements as they clambered fearlessly over Decepticon warframes--warframes who seemed to be going out of their way to accommodate the tiny mecha. “Those are *hatchlings*.” 

There was a moment of stunned silence. Prowl glanced about the rest of the table; most of the other Autobots present seemed to be just as taken aback as Ratchet was. Then the cavern erupted into a cacophony of protest and disbelief.

“What th’ frag--”

“When I get my hands on you, Red--why the Pit didn’t you show us this before--?”

“Hatchlings? Where the frag did *they* come from? There’s no way--”

“We gotta get ‘em out of there, who knows--”

“No Allspark, no factories to assemble frames, not within lightvorn, how the Pit did they--”

“You’re telling me Starscream’s hiding behind a bunch of sparklings? *Decepticon* sparklings??”

Optimus’ resonant voice cut through the babble. “Hatchlings …” he said softly, blunt, battle-worn fingers reaching out as if to touch the nearest softlight image. “How is this possible, Red Alert?”

“That’s what I wanna know, too,” Kup put in, pushing forward to scowl at the images. “Ain’t no way the Decepticons in this sector have been makin’ hatchlings. There ain’t near enough resources for that--haven’t been for ages. Not and still be able ta fight. And if any of those mechlets are over a vorn old, I’ll eat Hot Rod’s new spoiler.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, guys,” Sam said, waving his hands frantically. “Would someone mind telling me what the heck is going on here? You said these were … hatchlings? As in babies? As in *robot* babies? But I thought--without the Allspark, yanno …” he trailed off uncertainly.

“You believed that without the Allspark, Cybertronians could no longer reproduce, and our species was doomed to eventual extinction.” Prowl said evenly, ignoring how the others flinched at his words. “This is true, but not for the reasons you assumed.” 

“What d’you mean?” Epps said, frowning.

Prowl glanced at Optimus. _//Permission to release this information, sir?//_

Optimus nodded gravely. _//Permission granted.//_

“There are three methods by which Cybertronians might reproduce,” Prowl told the listening humans. “The first, and the oldest, is the Allspark. A frame is created, and brought to the Allspark, which imbues it with a spark. A … soul, in human terms, though the correlation is inexact.” A ‘soul’ was hardly as measurable, as physically present as a spark, after all. Without such evidence, how could the humans know if such a thing even existed at all? 

“But you can’t do that now, ‘cause the Allspark is gone,” Sam said quietly, his shoulders hunched, obviously still feeling responsible for the Allspark’s destruction.

“That is correct.” 

“The second way is to sparkbud--to split a new spark off of your own, and build a new budded frame around it out of your own protometal,” Ratchet said, taking up the thread of explanation with a medic’s authority. “Any mech can do this, but it’s risky. It takes a great deal of time, and plentiful resources.” He curled his fingers into a loose fist, looking at the softly-glowing images in the tank. “And a sparkbudded hatchling will always be an exact copy of his creator. Frametype, coding, right down to the memory seeds they carry. You’ve seen Que--he’s fission-sparked, and it’s pretty obvious who his creator is.”

“So, if you were to sparkbud, we’d end up with some kinda … mini-Ratchet?” Epps asked, obviously amused, though Prowl wasn’t sure why.

“Yup! Complete with a little mini-welder and a mini-bad temper,” Jazz said, grinning. He leaned back, lacing finger-components behind his helm, the very picture of nonchalance. 

Ratchet shot him a glare--but Jazz had, with his usual foresight, pre-positioned himself well out of thumping range. “Essentially, yes, though obviously the sparkling’s full framing and abilities would take many vorn to develop. There was a third way that our species once reproduced, but that too is now lost to us, just like the Allspark. So in a way, you were right. All that’s left of the Cybertronian race are a handful of warframe frame-classes, plus a very few medics, engineers, a few scientist-classes, and a scattering of random foundational frametypes. While the survivors can still reproduce through sparkbudding, the ability to create new classes of sparks, new frametypes to fill the void left behind by the deaths of so many … that is now impossible.”

Silence descended. Words had power, Prowl reflected, and Ratchet’s words had brought forth a truth that none of them had wished to face: that they were a dying species. The Cybertronian race was destined for extinction, even if that process would take millennia.

Unless … Prowl absorbed the data in front of him, the images of the hatchlings … and found the first glimmer of hope in his spark. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, feeling his way around this newsparked idea, as unsupported as it was, “--Starscream has reverted back to his core coding?” It was impossible to ignore one’s prime directives forever; that Starscream had managed for so long did not bode well for the Seeker’s sanity. But still, if he’d managed to reconcile the irreconcilable.… Caught up in this new analysis, it took Prowl a moment to realize that every Autobot in the cavern was now staring at him. 

He reflexively fact-checked his statement and found it still in line with the preliminary data, although he intended to speak with Red Alert about the inadvisability of withholding information. Had he had missed something in his analysis? “What is it?”

“Core coding--Prowl, Starscream is a *Seeker*,” Jazz replied, his faceplates folded in a pained expression normally reserved for Red Alert’s more erratic security protocols. “Remember them? Wings, big guns, attitude problems? Coded to fly really fast, blow slag up, an’ not much else?”

“Of course I do,” Prowl replied, ruthlessly overriding his annoyance at his fellow officers’ obvious skepticism. “I fail to see, however, how that is anything other than tangentially pertinent. Starscream might be Seeker-framed, but his prime directives are still that of a creator-mech.” 

"Whaaaaat???”

“That’s impossible!”

Once again, Optimus sliced through the noise, this time with a tight-banded and authoritative glyph. _//Silence.//_ The others’ protests died, and he turned optics to the waiting tactician. “Prowl ... please explain.” 

Upon reflection, Prowl could see his error. Most--if not all--the Autobots currently present had only ever known Starscream as the Decepticons’ viciously deadly second-in-command. What Prowl had assumed was common knowledge was apparently no longer so. He felt a ripple of dismay at that thought. They obviously would need to institute more backups of officers’ memory-archives--though the logistics of how to keep such backups safe escaped him at the moment. 

“Prowl,” Optimus prompted again, and the tactician rerouted back to the query at hand.

“Starscream was sparked as a Vosian creator-mech. He specialized in warframes, with the typical Vosian preference for aerial types, and from all accounts, was quite skilled. This was common knowledge before the war, at least in Praxus and Vos,” Prowl said evenly, giving his Prime the answers he sought. “I do not know exactly when he joined the Decepticon ranks, but given that the Autobot datafiles list him only as a Seeker, I would surmise that his reformatting occurred either before or soon after he joined the Decepticons.”

“Prowl--that’s impossible,” Ratchet blurted. “It’s just--there’s just--there’s no way a creator-sparked mech could--”

“Um, guys?” Epps called out, waving a hand in the air for attention. “Sorry, I know this is obviously something important, but mind explainin’ to the peanut gallery what the fuck a creator-whatzit is?”

After a brief pause, Ratchet answered. “Creators … were once our third means of propagation,” he said quietly. “They were a specialized subclass of mecha whose sole function was to create new life. Hatchlings. They were … there’s no human word I can find for what they were. They were artists, engineers, parents. They could spark any kind of mech; even create new mecha, create entirely new frameclasses.” He looked down at the humans, and Prowl could feel the echoes of old grief and regret in Ratchet’s field. “But creator-mecha … aren’t soldiers. *Can’t* be soldiers. Which is why Starscream can’t possibly be a creator-spark. That fragger has more blood on his talons than probably anyone other than Megatron himself.” 

Epps frowned. “Wait--okay, I get there bein’ some noncombatants and all … but you’re sayin’ they’re all dead? That every single one of these creator-guys refused to fight?” He shook his head. “I know every war’s got a few guys who won’t pick up a gun, but....” 

Ratchet bristled, plating shifting forward in aggravation. He began to reply--then stopped short as Jazz pushed himself away from his wall.

“I’ll take this one, Ratch, if ya don’t mind?” He glanced over to the human-scaled gantry. “Epps … ya got kids, right? A little girl?”

Epps nodded, frowning, obviously not sure where the question was heading. “Yeah, I do. Four of 'em. Why?”

“Remember when first one was just a baby? All warm an’ soft, wriggly an’ helpless? The first time ya saw those tiny fingers and toes, and she looked up at ya with those big eyes, like ya were her whole world?” Jazz said, his words reflecting the warm resonances of his field. Then his vocalizer hardened. “What would you do, Epps, if someone tried to hurt your little girl?”

Prowl could feel Epps bristle from across the cavern--quite an achievement, he reflected, from a species that had no fields to speak of. 

“I’d kill ‘em,” Epps said without hesitating, and given his military credentials both as a master sergeant and a member of NEST, Prowl didn’t doubt that the man meant it.

Jazz nodded, unsurprised by the answer. “What any parent would do, right? But it’s wartime, and the bullets are flyin’, and your commanding officer slaps a gun in your hand, and orders you to kill the enemy. Only the enemy ain’t soldiers. They’re babies--soft, helpless, newsparked little things full of promise, just like your Shareeka. And the only way you’re gonna survive the war is if you go kill those babies.” Jazz leaned forward, his words flat, uncompromising and ugly. “Could you do that, Epps? Could you walk down that line of innocents, smilin’ up at ya like you’re their whole world--and still put a gun to those little heads and pull the trigger?”

Epps recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “No! What the--what the *fuck*, Jazz? What kind of sick question is that? I’d never kill a kid! Not on accident, and sure as hell not on purpose!” 

Jazz straightened, his field smoothing out into its normal resonances, tinged a little with chagrin. “Sorry, Epps. I needed to make ya understand. Giving a weapon to a creator-mech and tellin’ ‘em to go fight the enemy … it’s like giving a human parent a gun and telling them they gotta go massacre their kid’s kindergarten class, or tellin’ an artist to torch the Louvre. Creators are made to spark life, to nurture and shape and protect it. Killing mecha, snuffing out the promise of that spark--they just can’t do it. And when you have a class of mecha who won’t kill, won’t defend themselves, an’ the whole world around ‘em is at war … well, they don’t tend to last long.”

“We tried to protect as many as we could, for as long as we could. But it wasn’t enough. I do not know of a single creator mech who has survived the war,” Optimus put in somberly, his field resonant with shame. He bowed his helm, as if in apology to those vanished sparks. “I was their Prime, and I failed them. We all did. We were so caught up in our war and our rage that we failed to defend the defenseless, and in so doing, we sacrificed our future.” 

Optimus lifted his helm and fixed his gaze on Prowl, who reflexively straightened under the regard of his Prime. “The possibility that perhaps one might have survived--even if that one might be Starscream--cannot be ignored. Prowl--are you certain?”

“I am,” Prowl said simply. There was no corruption in his memory archives, no chance that he had mistaken Starscream for another. Whether as a creator or a Seeker, the mech was simply too distinctive.

“That’s--Prowl, that’s just not possible.” Ratchet’s earlier indignation had faded into something more plaintive, his field crackling at the edges with dawning horror. “That … even if you’re right, and Starscream is a creator … To kill like he does, to *revel* in it like he does ...”

Prowl inclined his helm soberly, allowing the others to feel his regret, his sorrow. “Yes. I am sorry, Ratchet. But we must face the truth. Starscream may very well be Cybertron’s last surviving creator-mech--and he is, in all likelihood, insane.”

*********  


“Slagging--drone-humping--motherfucking piece of shit!” Mikaela panted, leaning all her weight on the tool in her hands. Wheeljack had helpfully machined an entire set of human-sized tools and adaptive devices to assist Mikaela when working on Cybertronian-sized parts. Unfortunately, those tools weren’t always enough--not when prying apart slagged metal and corroded connectors required more brute strength than finesse. Bracing a foot against a nearby bit of plating, she gave it another yank. “Powersuits,” she gasped, stray strands of hair falling into her eyes. “Cyborg muscles. A motherfucking *Gundam* is what I need to deal with YOU, you piece of--”

“Um …. I’m not a Gundam, but maybe I can help?” Red and white hands reached over her own, hooking blunt thumb-units into the partially open seam in the metal, and with an expert twist, Flipsides broke apart the corroded latching mechanisms.

Mikaela grinned over her shoulder at the small mech, bringing up a hand to swipe her hair back into place. It was a measure of how strange her life had become, she reflected, that she now considered a six-foot-plus alien robot to be ‘small’. “Thanks, ‘Sides--I’ll take you over a Gundam any day, believe me.” Working together, they eased the cover open, exposing the intricate layered circuitry underneath. Taking in the fine coating of lunar grit that covered the interior surfaces, Mikaela sighed. Vacuuming moon-pebbles out every tiny little crevice she ran across wasn’t her idea of fun, no matter how badly it needed to be done.

Leaning over to get a better look, Flipsides made a pleased noise. “That looks good,” he said, reaching out to lightly touch several parts of the surface structure that, near as she could tell, looked exactly like all the others. “Hardly any corrosion at all. Smokescreen was lucky; your moon was a pretty good place to crash, relatively speaking. No atmosphere, no liquids or xeno-organisms to infiltrate the damage .... If the Ark had crashed on Earth, we’d be replacing corroded and organic-fouled neural circuits for *months*.”

“I know you’re right,” Mikaela said ruefully, looking at the gray powder now liberally smeared over both hands. “But holy *crap* am I ever getting tired of suctioning rock dust out of you guys’ frames. You guys have way too many nooks and crannies for dirt to get into, you know that?”

“True,” Flipsides said easily. “Human bodies are much better at keeping out organic contaminants, I will admit.” He stepped back, flashing her a quick smile. Unlike many of his larger brethren, Flipsides had very mobile faceplates, and was able to convey a surprising range of humanlike expressions. His quick adoption of human body language made Mikaela suspect he’d had some help, possibly from Que’s emotive-patterning files. 

More importantly, Flipsides was a great deal more calm and levelheaded than either of his mechkin brothers. Both Rewind and Eject had been banished from the medbay by Ratchet within a week of their arrival, after one too many games of soccernastics. Or had it been basegolf? Truthfully, she hadn’t really paid that much attention. They were likeable enough, she supposed; enthusiastic and friendly, much like their boss, Blaster. In a way, they were a lot like the jocks Mikaela had known in school. Cute and eager to please--though nowhere near as fixated on getting into her pants, thank God--fun to hang around with when you wanted to party, but otherwise a lot more tolerable in small doses.

Flipsides, on the other hand … well, she knew it was silly to apply human measures of age to the Autobots, most of whom were likely older than her entire species, but he just seemed older, more mature. He was certainly calmer, and his quiet competence had been a huge asset to Ratchet in the medbay, even if his lack of size meant he couldn’t do all the repairs the bigger ‘bots could. That, at least, Mikaela could sympathize with. Being tiny and squishable--or crushable--in a world built for much larger mecha had to be tough, and it was probably a good thing ‘Sides had Blaster looking out for him.

Picking up a handheld vacuum attachment, she clicked it on, sweeping the feathery antistatic filaments over the exposed section of Smokescreen’s cortex. “Ratchet said Smokescreen was almost ready to be brought back online, right? Assuming we don’t find any new damage?”

Flipsides nodded. “According to the repair logs, he should be back up and mostly functional soon. Ratchet and Wheeljack have taken care of almost all the major damage, and autorepair can handle all the little cosmetic stuff.” He climbed over a pile of struts, expertly winding his way across the cluttered medbay table to the other side of the offlined mech’s helm. “Good thing, too--we could really use him. There are a lot of mecha out there whose coding could use some attention. Ratchet does his best, of course, but he’s just not equipped for that sort of thing. Not like a code specialist is.” He checked on a couple of diagnostic lines, making sure they were still secure.

“Hunh. So if Ratchet is like a mechanic, a code specialist would be like a--software engineer? He goes in and debugs your guys’ brains?” Mikaela asked. 

Flipsides paused, tilting his helm, obviously querying Teletraan’s files for the terms she’d used. Watching his faceplates scrunch up in pained distaste at the answers he received, Mikaela grinned. “I take it I’m off base?” 

“Well … not entirely,” Flipsides said, obviously searching for a way to phrase his answer diplomatically. “But … I wouldn’t ever call Ratchet a ‘mechanic’ where he can hear it, if I were you. Cybertron did have mecha who were equivalent to your ‘mechanics’, but they only worked on machinery: unsparked drones, surface cleaning and modifications, things like that. Calling any medic a mechanic is kind of an insult; it implies they aren’t skilled or knowledgeable enough to be trusted with the sparks of sentient mecha.”

Mikaela winced. “Ouch. Got it.”

Flipsides straightened from his crouch, giving her a reassuring smile. Patting the side of Smokescreen’s battered blue helm, he moved over and picked up another suctioning tool, starting to clean the other side of the exposed cortical circuitry. “You’re close, though. A code specialist is, um--more like a human psychiatrist, I guess? But also a bit like a software engineer too. They fix mecha who have developed glitches in their coding that normal repair protocols can’t handle, like corrupted memory files, damaged datawalls or firewalls … things like that. Sometimes they just guide a mech’s own systems into properly identifying the damage, but a lot of the time, especially for really severe glitches or codebase corruption, they’ll go in to rebuild and repair what they can. Or, if the damage is too severe, to isolate the problem so that it can’t cascade into other systems. They’re highly specialized, on a par with fully-framed medics; Smokescreen has probably forgotten more than most other mecha ever knew about Cybertronian coding.”

Mikaela paused in her steady sweeps over the dusty surfaces, looking down at her patient’s helm with new respect. “Wow. That is impressive. Wish we had something like that.”

“Well, humans are very adaptable,” Flipsides replied easily, using a narrow-tipped siphon to clean tiny, almost invisible spaces with exacting precision. “Perhaps someday you will. Given how difficult it is to repair organic systems, your species has made amazing progress already.”

“If it at first you don’t succeed …” Mikaela agreed, frowning down at a bit of scorching under her fingertips. “Teletraan, you there?”

“Affirmative, Mikaela.”

“Good--can you mark this damage down for Ratchet’s review? Slight scorching, in the um--shit. ‘Sides, what’s this section designated as?”

Flipsides lifted his helm, peering over Smokescreen’s battered yellow chevron. “Anterior section 18923.299, on the fourteenth sub-” he switched to Cybertronian briefly, spitting out a crackle of technical terms with no English equivalents, “-on the zt axis.” It would have been much easier for Flipsides to comm Teletraan-1 directly with the information, Mikaela knew, and she appreciated the small mech’s consideration. It was much easier for her to learn when she could hear the terminology being used in context. 

In the beginning, Mikaela had done her best to help, but there had been so little she could really do. Still, she’d done what she could. Mostly she'd been on cleanup duty, or moving bits and small supplies around while Ratchet and Wheeljack made repairs in--to her, at least--an eerie near-silence, working together in an effortlessly alien synchronicity. And while the last thing Mikaela wanted was to interrupt critical repairs in order for Ratchet to give remedial lessons in Cybertronian anatomy, it had been frustrating not to be able to at least learn by watching or listening. Despite Ratchet’s kindness and Optimus’ patient understanding, it had made her feel like an outsider; a dumb monkey sitting on the sidelines, watching miracles being performed with offhand expertise. 

These days, Ratchet and the other Autobots were far more familiar with human mores. In deference to their human allies, most Autobots took care to communicate verbally in addition to using comms whenever possible. Mikaela wasn’t sure if NEST, or even Sam, for that matter, really understood how much the mecha they worked with had slowed down their normal modes of communication for them. But it was something she would never take for granted, and her work with Ratchet and Wheeljack had made her very grateful for the efforts made on her behalf. 

She bent her head to her work once more, carefully cleaning the areas around the damage. The moondust came away in staticky layers, fine as flour and abrasive as sandpaper. Once disturbed, the powder would drift and cling to absolutely anything. Trying to use liquid to wash it away just made it stick harder. It was nasty stuff, really. It would have done a number on any earthly electronics, and even the Cybertronian components looked worn in places. The sections that seemed clear often harbored more dust, deep in crevices and joins. Another sweep of the vacuuming fronds exposed more circuitry beneath. And also... wires? Except that they didn’t look like any wires she’d ever seen. 

“Flipsides... what is this?” Mikaela asked, crouching down to look more closely. The tracery of wire-like stuff looked similar to something she’d seen deep in other damaged mecha, threading in and out of every component. She knew that she wasn’t supposed to touch those dull webs -- Ratchet had made that very clear. But these wires were brighter, a faintly glistening silver. 

The mechkin abandoned his work, moving over and crouching down beside her. “A good sign,” he said, and from this distance, Mikaela could see thin wafers sliding down behind his optics, could hear the lenses click into place. It totally wasn’t fair that humans came without magnification vision. “Protometal goes dormant in stasis, starting from the most recent pieces integrated down to the oldest. Smokescreen probably incorporated this particular sensory bank back when he was a mechling.”

Mikaela blinked. “Protometal? Mech-what?”

“Protometal, along with the spark, is what makes up the core of a Cybertronian,” Flipsides replied absently, still studying the newly-cleaned section. “Ratchet hasn’t told you about protometal yet?”

“Not really. I’ve heard the term in passing, but I’d never thought much about it before.” The term had usually been used in the context of critical repairs, and she certainly hadn’t been about to interrupt Ratchet with dumb questions when he was in the middle of saving someone’s life!

“Well, it is a complicated concept,” Flipsides said easily. “Honestly, I’m not sure Earth-based science has the terminology to describe it properly.” He straightened, lifting a hand and flexing the finely-jointed fingers thoughtfully. “Protometal--I guess the closest Earth parallel would be the human nervous system, though they’re not really equivalent. It’s the … substrate, the foundation, of all Cybertronian frametypes. It’s not really solid or liquid but a malleable substance like nothing else. It’s essential for frame integration; along with the transformation cog, it’s what gives Cybertronians our transforming capability.” He concentrated--and the plating in his forearm folded outward, parts shifting to the sides, exposing vulnerable internal struts and the complex internals for Mikaela’s inspection. “My frametype doesn’t have as much as the bigger mecha do, but you should be able to see the protometal down in the joins … here, and here.” Flipsides tilted his arm helpfully into the light as Mikaela squinted down at it. “See it? That’s what healthy protometal usually looks like. It’s threaded through almost every part of an adult mech’s frame. Sparklings, of course, are mostly protometal; as they get older, they learn to incorporate larger pieces, larger frames.”

“Sparklings. Those are like--the hatchlings that Sam and the others were talking about?” Which, quite frankly, was breaking her brain in more ways than one. Baby robots were hard enough to wrap her mind around, much less the idea of *Starscream* as a parent.

Flipsides nodded. “Yes. Sparkling is another word for hatchling--they’re interchangeable, pretty much. Mechling is usually used for an older mech who still isn’t quite an adult, like Que or Hot Rod.”

“So … a hatchling is like a baby. And a mechling is like a kid? Or a teenager?” Mikaela said, feeling her way around the new concepts. “This is so weird. I’d never thought about you guys having babies like humans do. I guess I thought you always just … well,” she mimed snapping two pieces together in the air, “-built new people whenever you needed them, you know?”

“Oh, we do that too,” Flipsides said easily. Then he sobered. “Or we did, when we had the Allspark. You built a frame--or a bunch of frames--with basic coding, brought them to the Allspark, and let it enspark them with life. Much faster than sparking hatchlings, even if results were often a bit more … predictable? Unimaginative? But with the Allspark gone … well, we can’t do that anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Mikaela said softly.

Folding his armor back into place over his arm, Flipsides gave her the ghost of smile. “It’s okay. It … was a shock, when Blaster got the news. I guess we thought the Allspark would always be there, no matter what. No matter how many of us died.” He looked down at Smokescreen’s darkened optics and reached out to pat the side of that battered helm. “Which is why the hatchlings--and saving as many mecha as we can--are so important to Optimus. We’ve lost so many…. We always thought we’d have the Allspark to help us rebuild, you know? Now--without it, without creator-mecha--well, Optimus will be our last Prime.” He looked over at her. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like.”

Mikaela frowned. “Wait--what about that other thing Ratchet was talking about? The whole budding thing? Can’t Optimus just … make a mini-Optimus?”

Flipsides shook his head. “He could, but … Primes are sparked as dyads. Every Prime has a Lord Protector, every Lord Protector a Prime; twin sparks, created together. Optimus could perhaps create a Prime-spark, but without its twin, the hatchling would be hopelessly unbalanced. Glitched.” He looked grim. “Such a spark … likely would not survive long.”

“Optimus has a *twin*?” Mikaela tried to imagine Optimus having a brother and failed. Optimus Prime had so much presence, could infuse so much power into the barest word … it was impossible to imagine another mech that could even come close to matching him. 

Flipsides gave her a surprised look. “Of course. He wouldn’t be a Prime if he didn’t,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Even now, Megatron is still his brother, still the Lord High Protector of Cybertron. Even if there’s not much left on Cybertron to protect.” 

Mikaela gaped at him, speechless. Flipsides cycled his optics, tilting his helm to one side. “You honestly didn’t know?”

“No! Why didn’t anyone tell me? Does Sam know about this?” And if he did and hadn’t told her, Mikaela was going to strangle him. “How can--how does that even work? Optimus--he isn’t anything like Megatron!” Megatron was a monster, a ruthless, genocidal war machine bent on conquest. How the hell could patient, self-sacrificing Optimus have someone like that as a brother? “They don’t even look alike,” she added somewhat desperately, struggling to make sense of it all. 

Now it was Flipsides turn to be confused. “No. Why would they?” He paused, obviously querying Teletraan once again, and realization dawned. “Oh--no, dyads aren’t like human twins. They’re more like--two halves of a whole. Or they should be.” 

He looked downward, refusing to meet her eyes for the first time. “But the bond between Optimus and Megatron was broken a long time ago. Maybe this truce will give them a chance to come to terms, but it’s been so long …. It’s almost too much to hope for.”

“After everything Megatron’s done, I’m surprised anyone would be willing to forgive him,” Mikaela said. She only knew bits and pieces, her own experiences added to scraps of war stories told by Sideswipe and the others, but even those had been horrifying enough. Stories of whole planets laid waste, stripped bare by Decepticons … betrayals and broken treaties and atrocity upon atrocity, all told by Autobots who’d been fighting for so long that they couldn’t imagine living any other way.

“I know it’s hard to imagine,” Flipsides said softly, “but we weren’t always this way. We didn’t always hate each other like this.” He hunched his pauldrons in an oddly humanlike shrug. “Ratchet would call me naive, but … I still have to hope. That we can go back to that, someday ….”

Mikaela was pretty sure she was in Ratchet’s camp on that one, but it would have taken a far more heartless person than she was to tell Flipsides that. She laid a gentle hand on one red- and white-armored arm, giving him a smile. “I think that there are worse things to hope for.” Which was nothing but the truth, no matter how unlikely it was that Flipsides’ hopes would be rewarded.

On the other hand … they’d already seen Optimus come back from the dead. How hard could one more miracle be?


	12. Chapter 12

Smokescreen was not an impatient mech. He was sparked to be careful, to be poised and exacting; a code specialist who didn’t have those skills was, quite frankly, not very good at their function. And while Smokescreen had never been quite as well-known for his work as perhaps he could have been--he’d been a bit too unconventional in his solutions, a bit too willing to take risks when the odds merited it--he was still very, very good at his job.

Still, every mech had his limits.

He recognized the darkness around him, of course. Even with higher functions shut down, the spark knew this place -- and how fascinating was that? There were things missing, differences between what he had known before, and what he still knew now … yet somehow those things seemed unimportant. Distant. His spark recognized stasis, that protective blanket of darkness, both like and unlike recharge. Dimly, he knew that stasis meant his frame had been damaged, remembered distant echoes of fire and desperation and a final, shuddering crash …

… but that hand was played. What pain there had been now safely resided in a frame that could no longer register it, and tucked safe within the darkness, Smokescreen was … bored. 

As if summoned by that thought, the darkness changed. There were … impressions in it, sensations without feeling. Vibrations, subtly changing …. Curious, he rose towards them, only to come up against a barrier. He reached out, explored it. The walls were familiar, had Ratchet’s purely utilitarian resonances, and he recognized them as surgical code. Blocks, to keep him under, keep him safely in stasis. 

Ratchet, always the worrier. With a deft twist, Smokescreen flickered his way past, untangling the blocks and setting them aside. He was tired of being safe; his spark flared, *reached*--

“--so this color means ‘friend’. And this one means ‘family’?”

There was the familiar sensation of fluctuating fields, their variances changing, shifting. Another, far deeper voice reverberated against his audials, the sound thrumming through his frame.

“Yes. Many colors, friends.” He could feel the prickle of a powerful field upon his haptic sensors. Which were now online, Smokescreen belatedly realized. 

“Wait--so you’re saying--so that color means ‘friend’. But so does that color, and that color--that whole spectrum. Really? Plus those colors over there? And these variances all mean family? Why are there so many--”

“Friends are impor-tant.” 

Well, yes, Smokescreen would have to agree with that … 

“Friends, diff-erent. Family-friend. Parent friend. Hogarth … soul-friend. Diff-erent than Autobot-friends. Friends important. Differences … are also important.”

Okay, now that was just too interesting to ignore. Smokescreen shunted aside internal diagnostics as they reported their litany of recent repairs and pushed himself fully online. His optics flickered, an unfamiliar rocky ceiling snapping into focus. Secondary optics shifted--yes, there was Ratchet, watching him with a resigned air, _annoyance/happiness_ prickling over his plating. 

“I don’t know why I even bother trying to keep you under, Smokey. One of these days you’re going to come back online and find your internals still in pieces.” Ratchet’s tone was acerbic, but his field was warm. “Welcome back, my friend. Your first patient has been waiting for you.”

“My first … what?” A massive shape leaned into his optical range, blocking out the lights overhead. Gray plating, haloed by a brilliant field, and an alien, blunt-featured helm all came into view. A four-fingered hand--as large as Smokescreen was tall--waved hello. 

“Smokescreen, this is the Giant,” Ratchet said drily, his amusement plain. Perceptor and Wheeljack both poked their helms into view around the strange mech’s bulk, pinging him with greetings of _welcome/joy_. “Giant, meet Smokescreen. I’m sure you’ll both have a great deal to talk about.”  


  


*********

  


Sam yawned, scrubbing one hand--the one not clutching his coffee--over his eyes as he waited for the main door to the embassy to rumble open. Normally he would have taken the smaller, human-sized entrance to the outside, but right now, he wasn’t feeling especially motivated to face the day. These red-eye flights back and forth from D.C. were going to be the death of him. He’d gotten back at 3 a.m. this morning and managed to catch a whole four hours of sleep before his jetlagged self had been rousted out of bed by an apologetic Teletraan for another conference call. So as far as he was concerned, sunshine was the enemy, and anything that postponed the inevitable for a few extra moments was good in his book.

A full night’s sleep. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently the Pentagon thought so. Not to mention the U.N. And the President. It was a sad day for humanity when giant alien mecha were more respectful of a man’s need for sleep than his fellow humans, Sam thought grouchily, squinting his eyes against the glare as the door finally swung open. He stepped forward--

\--only to stagger back again as a wave of noise--shouting and whooping, engines revving and tires squealing--assaulted his ears. The last vestiges of Sam’s jetlag vanished in a wash of adrenaline as he ducked outside, craning his neck, looking for an attack. 

“Teletraan, what’s going on? What’s wrong? Are we under--” he stopped short, goggling at the sight of Hound and Mirage--dancing? Were they dancing? Because that sure as hell looked like two giant alien robots doing a very undignified boogie, with Dino tire-skating in gleeful circles around them. And they weren’t the only ones. Everywhere Sam saw Autobots whooping in delight, shouting in Cybertronian and English, back-slapping each other--adding the clang of metal on metal to the noise--hoisting weapons or closed fists high. Some of the bigger ‘bots were even tossing the smaller ones in the air, or transforming into their alts and making donuts in the sandy gravel, flinging dirt everywhere in gleeful abandon. 

Spotting a bemused Hughes and the Giant sitting off to one side, safely out of the madness, Sam hurried over. “What’s going on?” he half-shouted, trying to be heard over the noise. 

“Not sure,” Hughes said, shaking his head in bemusement. “Was a pretty normal morning--then next thing you know, boom! Instant party.” He shrugged. “Guess they got some good news?”

“Good news? The best!” Sideswipe jumped down from a nearby boulder-pile. “Teletraan-1 just got the word from Cosmos--they’re coming!” He did a fist-pump, then grabbed an unimpressed Sunstreaker and tried to twirl his brother around. “Reinforcements in spades, oh yeah!”

Sunstreaker scowled, shoving his brother away. “Getoff, you glitch!” 

Sideswipe just grinned, alien faceplates spreading in fierce delight. “Two gestalts! Two! And Skyfire! Those fragging Seekers aren’t gonna know what hit ‘em!” In lieu of Sunstreaker, he grabbed Cliffjumper instead, swinging the smaller mech around. “Best! Present! Ever!”

“Hey!”

“Two! We’re gonna stomp Starscream’s aft so hard, he’ll have footprints on his backside until the next Golden Age! Oh yeah!” Sideswipe ran off, a flailing Cliffjumper tucked under one arm like a football.

Sam watched them go, blinking. Then looked over at an unimpressed Sunstreaker. “So … reinforcements?” He didn’t recall this kind of impromptu party breaking out when they’d heard about the Axalon. 

Sunstreaker gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “Obviously.” He stalked away. 

“Riiiight … okay. Not getting any answers there,” Sam muttered. Then he spotted a familiar form, and brightened. “Bumblebee!” He waved a hand, and the yellow mech waved back, weaving and half-dancing his way through the rambunctious throng to where they were. “Bumblebee, what’s going on?”

“Sam!” Bumblebee’s faceplates weren’t really equipped to smile, but the yellow mech was obviously happy, his doorwings perked high. “That’s right, you were asleep. We just got word--two new groups of Autobots are heading to Earth. Including the Aerialbots and the Protectobots and Skyfire. We’ll finally have some air support, and two gestalts to boot!” 

“Ges-whats?” Hughes asked. 

“Gestalts--like the Constructicons. Remember them, Sam?” Seeing Hughes’ incomprehension, Bumblebee elaborated. “They’re individual mecha that are designed to join together into one huge combined form. They’re powerhouses on the battlefield; with both Superion and Defensor on Earth, we’ll finally have the upper hand against Starscream.” 

“Oh wow, no wonder everybody’s partying.” Sam glanced over at Hughes. “This is great. We’ll have our own fliers, and the Giant gets to have guys his own size to stomp around with!”

“That is good news,” Hughes agreed, glancing up at the Giant. “The more, the merrier, right?” 

Mrs. Hughes emerged from the base interior, did the same double-take as Sam had earlier, then headed over, two coffee mugs in hand. She handed one over to Hogarth, smiling. “Anyone care to fill me in?”

“Bumblebee was just telling us the news,” Sam told her, resisting the urge to dance a bit himself. “They got word, there’s--” 

Sam never got the chance to finish his sentence. The words were buried underneath the noise of an explosion, quickly followed by more concussive blasts that shook the mountain underneath them. The ear-shattering thunder of engines quickly followed, rocks and fire raining down upon the embassy and the Autobots caught outside.

“Inside, quickly!” Bumblebee shouted over the din, doing his best to shelter the three humans. Caught by surprise, the Autobots scrambled for cover, running for emplacements or opening fire on the Decepticons dropping out of the sky. 

A massive--and unfamiliar--shuttle darkened the sky high above the embassy entrance, disgorging tankframes and Decepticon frontliners. It seemed impervious to the artillery pounding at its plating, and more than happy to return fire, its blasts tearing the outside structures apart, rattling the mountainside. And beyond it, streaking in--Seekers, coming in low, racing across the desert at supersonic speeds. 

Long experience had Sam ducking, grabbing for both of his friends. “Go go go--get inside!” Ignoring a nearby explosion, he pushed them towards the embassy entrance. “We need to get under cover!” The middle of a battle between giant mecha was no place for civilians, much less ones as elderly as Hogarth and Anjali. 

“Giant!” Bumblebee shouted, firing several blasts of his plasma cannon at the nearest Decepticon frontliner, sending the other mech reeling backwards. “Go! Get them inside, keep yourselves safe!”

With a nod, the Giant turned. Sam yelped as he was unceremoniously scooped up into a broad, gray-armored palm along with the others, and lifted upwards with dizzying speed. “What the--whoah!” 

“Keep safe,” the Giant rumbled, cradling them carefully as he ran for the entrance. For a mech his size, it was only a few long strides away; still, Sam could feel him flinching at each new explosion, could hear the familiar sounds of battle beyond those massive shoulders. The pounding of the Giant’s feet against the earth simply added to the din. Darkness swept over them: the embassy’s main entrance, the main blast doors already rumbling shut as they passed into the safety of the mountain.

“Are you both all right?” Sam asked, helping Hughes and Anjali disentangle themselves as the Giant carefully lowered them to the ground.

“I--I think so,” Mrs. Hughes replied, obviously shaken, eyes wide and scared. “What just happened? What’s going on?”

“Those were Decepticons,” Sam said, his face grim as he turned to lead the way to safer environs. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same .... “And it looks like they just decided to declare war.”  


  


*********

Bumblebee ducked under the swing of an energon blade, hammering a closed fist into a vulnerable join in the Decepticon frontliner’s thorax. Armor crumpled under the blow, hampering the jointed struts underneath, and he followed it up with a point-blank blast from his cannon even as he kicked his opponent away.

 _-Runabout-_ a subthread reported, recognizing the black-and-red frame of the Decepticon frontliner under the higher-priority processes of his battle processor: threat assessments, combat conditions, added to the constant ebb and flow of information from the Autobot tacnet. Instinct had him feeding in that designation to Teletraan, who ensured the intel was disseminated at the speed of thought. 

_//Runabout here--//_ he reported, even as the Decepticon snarled. Runabout had a good-sized hole in his chassis, courtesy of Bumblebee’s earlier attack, but that didn’t seem to be slowing him down much. Snarling, the Decepticon opened fire, sending Bumblebee diving for cover. _//Keep an eye out--he and Runamuck are usually together--//_

 _//--was about to drop on your aft, ‘Bee, but I took ‘im out. He’s not offline, but I got a good shot in--he’s goin’ nowhere fast,//_ Jazz reported. A flicker of the tacnet showed the saboteur spinning between two tankframes in alt-mode, a dervish of speed and small-arms fire that kept the heavily-armored Decepticons off-balance and annoyed, even as the Wreckers rolled in. _//One down, eleventy-billion ta go--how the frag did they sneak up on us like th--whoa!//_

Jazz dodged, pouring on the speed as a Seeker missile exploded where he’d been a moment before. Debris rained down, clanging against nearby mecha, dust and roiling flame fogging the battlefield. One of the Decepticon tankframes--Bludgeon, the tacnet told him--transformed. He took a moment to shake an angry fist at the sky, apparently not pleased with his own side’s aim. Then he backhanded an attacking Dino with brutal ease, sending the smaller mecha flying.

New damage reports rolled in, a background hum of status-indicators. Dino, Bluestreak, Roadbuster, Kup … along with Ratchet’s acknowledging pings as the medic maneuvered for access, doing battlefield repairs when and where he could. So far none of the damage was serious, nothing that threatened deactivation, but Dino had been knocked offline by that last hit and Bludgeon obviously didn’t intend to give him a chance to recover. Through the tacnet, Bumblebee could only watch as the big mech brought his pede down in a crushing blow on the frontliner’s chassis--

\--only to be knocked backwards by Mirage. The saboteur hit Bludgeon high, shimmering into sight as he launched himself onto the tankframe’s broad back. He slammed a energon needler into the join between cervical plating and helm even as Hound came in and tackled the tankframe, knocking the Decepticon backwards, away from Dino’s limp frame. Mirage fired at point-blank range, and Bludgeon roared, convulsing as energon-laced spikes tore through his internals.

 _//--Hound, pull Dino back to the NEST emplacements,//_ Prowl ordered coolly. Bumblebee could hear the rising and falling multilayered feeds of tactical chatter, the hum of weapons-fire, battle-data rolling over the tacnet from Prowl’s location. The Autobot tactician was fully engaged with a heloformer and two frontliners, maneuvering to get a clear shot. Prowl continued, answering Jazz, _//Astrotrain dropped in from low Earth orbit while Sky Spy was on the far side of the planet--the Seekers came in low, under human radar. Threat assessment: Conehead trine, Command trine minus Starscream, four frontliners, two tankframes, one airframe, one shuttlemech and one rotary frame.//_ Known designations and enemy profiles pinged back and forth across the tacnet as the battlefield shifted and more of their enemies became known. _-Hailstorm. Jetblade. Bombshock. Thrust. Dirge. Skywarp-_

 _//Heads-up, folks--looks like Thundercracker is the mech in charge,//_ Blaster reported. _//I’m gettin’ encrypted comm traffic from him like nobody’s business, and Starscream’s nowhere to be found.//_

 _//I have an angle on him--just need to line up a good shot,//_ Bluestreak reported, distance and elevation calculations humming behind his glyphs. _//Having trouble getting clear, I’m in too close and there are too many airframes, plus Skywarp keeps popping in and out and--//_ Bumblebee relegated Bluestreak’s constant updates to a secondary monitoring channel; the Praxian sniper was on the far side of the embassy grounds, too far for him to assist. 

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s side of the tacnet came alive with vicious satisfaction. Their combined efforts had knocked Dirge out of the air, the Seeker spiralling downward, trailing smoke and flame. _//Think you’re hot slag, do ya? Let’s see how you like it--fuck!//_ Another flurry of code over the tacnet, this time acknowledgements and responses as Inferno’s active-status tripped over in a cascade of damage reports and redlined errors. _//Fragging Skywarp--got the jump on us! Inferno’s down.//_

 _//Acknowledged.//_ Prowl again, fitting in the data, shifting tactics and reprioritizing new targets over the tacnet as Autobots fought, taking damage and falling under the Decepticons’ unrelenting push towards the embassy. _//Ratchet--//_

_//Got it, already on my way--//_

_//Negative.//_ The imperatives on those glyphs were jarring, absolute in their command. _//Do NOT expose yourself, Ratchet. It is almost certain that the Decepticons are targeting you; we cannot risk losing our only fully-framed medic needlessly.//_

_//Slaggit, Prowl, I’m not going to--//_

_//I am falling back, Ratchet.//_ Optimus this time, glyphs resonant with authority. _//We will get Inferno to cover.//_ Optimus was currently engaged in exchanging fire with both Astrotrain and a pair of Decepticon grounders. The grounders, at least, weren’t stupid; they were keeping their distance, pummelling Optimus with missiles and small-arms fire.

Despite their best efforts, they were only slowing the advance, Bumblebee realized even as he spun and fired and fought. Runabout retreated, falling back towards the tankframes and the protection of their greater firepower, though not without a few more shots in Bumblebee’s general direction. Ignoring his former opponent for the moment, Bumblebee dodged towards the swirl of artillery and explosions that marked where Optimus was. The Wreckers apparently had the same idea, converging on their Prime’s position, using it as a rallying point like they had so many times before. 

They’d faced worse odds, but that still didn’t mean these were good. Even with the arrival of the Axalon, the Autobots simply did not have the sheer numbers needed to repulse such an attack without casualties. The attacking force was much smaller than they’d faced in Chicago--about the same numbers as Egypt--but the Decepticons still had the advantage when it came to firepower. Lennox and the other members of NEST stationed at the embassy had already fallen back, taking cover behind the Autobot lines, manning emplacements and doing their best to sabotage the Decepticons’ advance. But unlike Chicago, their tactics no longer had the element of surprise, and there were no human structures here in which to hide. Between the Seekers’ aerial superiority and the tankframes holding the line on the ground, the Autobots were being forced back, one wounded mech at a time.

Bumblebee transformed, screeching between explosions as he weaved through a gauntlet of cannon-fire, heading towards the thick of the fray. They needed to take out the Seekers. If they could cripple the Decepticons’ air support, the groundframes would be forced to fall back quickly enough. Transforming again, he leaped over the slagged, burning remnants of a NEST sentry post, firing upwards at the nearest Decepticon--an unknown rotary, blades folded to either side of his pauldrons as he sliced his way through the smaller Autobots around him. 

Bumblebee dodged a swing of the airframe’s plasma-edged blade. Giving ground, he looked for weaknesses, trying to lure the big mech into an opening he could exploit. Out of nowhere came the audial-shattering crack of a sonic boom at close range--the abrupt change air pressure beat against his plating, knocking him off his pedes and sending systems into redline from the overpressure. 

Fragging Thundercracker! He could hear the others cursing, even as they scrambled to recover lost ground. The longer they stayed outside the mountain, the more they risked being overrun. They should retreat, let the Decepticons exhaust themselves against the embassy’s defenses. But if they allowed themselves to be pinned down, the humans would undoubtedly find time to mobilize--and then more human pilots would die trying to defend their airspace against Seekers who didn’t care whom it belonged to.

A boulder took the brunt of a nearby missile hit; Bumblebee ducked as flying debris rattled against his plating. He returned fire, letting Optimus and the Wreckers concentrate their firepower on the heavily-armored tankframes while he did his best to take out the frontliners. The lines were forming up, the Decepticons digging in. Bumblebee spotted a few smoking frames to the rear _-Bombshock, Ransack-_ , and Dirge had been grounded. But that still left far too many Decepticons in the fray, including Skywarp, who was fragging impossible to get a bead on at the best of times. And who, Bumblebee realized with belated alarm, was nowhere to be seen. Where was--

 _//Wheeljack!//_ The engineer’s spike of alarm rippled through the tacnet, along with Cliffjumper and Seaspray’s dismay. _//--slag, Skywarp’s got Wheeljack, he dropped in behind us! Come back here, you fragging--//_

 _//Cliffjumper, Seaspray, don’t expose your position-//_ Prowl ordered, but it was already too late. Skywarp thundered into the sky, an offlined Wheeljack wrapped tight in grappling cables, banking and twisting through a hail of energon blasts as Cliffjumper roared in rage. Que and Seaspray were right behind him, firing impotently upwards, hampered by their unwillingness to hit their fellow Autobot. Springer leaped into the air, transforming in a last-ditch attempt to try and intercept the Seeker--Ramjet and Astrotrain hammered him from above, sending him into a smoking, twisting spiral towards the ground.

 _//Wheeljack!//_ The cry came from multiple voices, multiple minds. Ratchet and Optimus and Jazz and himself, raging at their helplessness, still pinned, still groundbound as they watched Thundercracker swing in, taking up position on Skywarp’s wing as the two Seekers streaked away. They fired and fought and raged, but Bumblebee knew there was nothing they could do to keep the Seekers from escaping with their prize--

\--when the air above the mountain twisted in a wash of cross-dimensional energies. A riptide of air sucked in to fill the sudden vacuum, and a massive white-armored bulk dropped out of the newly-opened spacebridge, streaking into Earth’s upper atmosphere.

 _//Skyfire!//_ Bumblebee shouted joyfully, not caring who heard. 

He wasn’t alone. A rear hatch opened, and five smaller figures launched themselves, transforming in midair to a familiar quintet of Cybertronian airframes, clad in bright Autobot colors. Engines igniting, they cut through the air, faster and more maneuverable than any human craft, roaring down to engage the Decepticon Seekers. 

The shuttlemech wasted no time in joining the engagement, thundering down from above with the roar of atmospheric engines. _//Skyfire here-//_ came the welcome call, even as the tacnet flowered open in enthusiastic welcome. 

_//-Fireflight/Skydive/Slingshot/Air Raid/Silverbolt- reporting in,//_ came the overlapping hails from the Aerialbots, colored by concern, enthusiastic glee, and the five-toned intermingled glyphs characteristic of a gestalt team. _//Looks like you got an infestation, Optimus,//_ Air Raid added. _//Mind if we help clear the air?//_

 _//Skywarp has Wheeljack,//_ Prowl interjected, his message laden with imperative modifiers. _//We cannot allow him to get away. If any of you are in position to intercept--//_

The fighting on the ground hadn’t lessened, but it was obvious the battle-lines had shifted. The Decepticon airframes were in disarray, taken off-guard by the unexpected challengers to their domain, trines maneuvering, trying to form up and beat off the new wave of attackers. 

_//Understood,//_ came Silverbolt’s reply, echoed by acknowledging pings from the rest. 

Bumblebee couldn’t afford to spare more than a tertiary processing thread for the dogfight that followed, not with the Decepticon groundframes pressing their assault. It was obvious that the Decepticons had been taken by surprise by the unexpected reinforcements, and the frontliners and tankframes were scrambling to push the Autobot defenders back before *they* were the ones caught out in the open. Even with most of his attention focussed on the enemies in front of him, though, it was impossible to ignore the furious aerial battle overhead, airframes and Seekers jinking and spinning through the sky in a firestorm of energon blasts and missile fire. 

Skyfire and Astrotrain were also in the fray. Less maneuverable, they were far more heavily armed and armored than their lighter brethren, powerhouses of the air. The tacnet flared with warning; Bumblebee threw himself sideways to avoid a stray cannon-blast as the two shuttles roared low. Skywarp had been forced back around, he noticed, unable to get clear--

 _//I’m on his tail/got him boxed in/force him down--got him!//_ the jumble of gestalt communication resolved into Silverbolt’s command-comm. _//Wheeljack’s clear, though Skywarp’s still in the fight. Bringing him down to you guys-//_

 _//Drop him here, Silverbolt, if you can. I’m already working on Inferno, might as well have two idiots for the price of one-//_ Ratchet, harried and acerbic, even as a swell of relief resonated across the tacnet.

Bumblebee transformed, streaking to the forefront to join Sunstreaker and Hot Rod. Bludgeon had fallen back, too heavily damaged to continue the press forward, and Prowl had been quick to exploit that opening. Bumblebee and the other frontliners were now the point of a wedge formed by Optimus and the Wreckers, providing the firepower to splinter the Decepticon advance and allow their heavies to close with their enemies. 

The whirl dissolved into a swirl of fire and fury and close-quarters combat, higher processes overridden by the demands of battle, of action-reaction-defense. Transforming, tearing at plating, firing at joins and at faceplates, exploiting vulnerabilities there and gone within astroseconds: this was what Bumblebee had been made for, and something deep in his spark exulted in it, in the test of his prowess and the imperatives of war. He smashed a taloned fist into Runamuck’s faceplates, spun as an energon blade sizzled over his head. Sidestepped out of the way as Optimus lent his strength to the battle, charged forward to tackle a snarling Bludgeon, metal fragmenting, flying with the impact.

 _//--c’mon c’mon so close almost there lining up yes yes GOT HIM yes!--//_ Bluestreak’s victorious glee broke through his priority queues. The tacnet belatedly added information to the sniper’s ramble: Bluestreak had finally gotten a clear shot at Thundercracker. The Seeker was falling, trailing fire--one wing had been sheared completely off by Bluestreak’s shot, energon igniting in the air and across the Seeker’s blue plating.

The reaction from the Decepticon forces was immediate. In a flash of purple, Skywarp flickered into sight on one side of his falling trinemate, grapples reaching out, latching on. Another localized warp, and they were both clear of the fray, streaking away with all the speed Skywarp could muster. 

_//They’re making a run for it!//_ Fireflight, caught up in the chase.

 _//It’s lookin’ like they’re not the only ones, either,//_ Jazz said, and Bumblebee had to agree. With Thundercracker out of commission, the Decepticons were scrambling to disengage, both on the ground and in the air. Astrostrain swooped low; a few managed to make it aboard before the shuttleframe took off again, Skyfire hot on his tail. The rest transformed into alts and peeled out in all directions, scattering, leaving their offlined battle-brothers behind as they ran. _//Tryin’ to chase down Seekers is a fool’s game, but we might be able ta box in the grounders now that the Aerials are here. You want us ta go after ‘em?//_

 _//Negative,//_ came Optimus’ command. _//Red Alert, Prowl--track the Decepticons’ movements, and alert the human authorities. Capture as many as you can here at the embassy, but recovering our wounded and the defense of Yucca Mountain has first priority. We cannot afford to spread ourselves thin hunting down stragglers.//_

 _//Got it,//_ Jazz replied, overriding the grumbles from both Wreckers and Aerialbots. There were a few scattered shots from Decepticon stragglers, and Silverbolt had his hands full corralling Slingshot and Air Raid into line. Still, the worst seemed to be over. _//Alright, we’ve had our fun. Report in, kiddies--time for cleanup duty.//_  


  


*********

Bumblebee kept his weapons ready-hot, his sensor arrays on their widest possible range as he moved through the embassy outskirts, checking for traps and offlined Decepticons. He didn’t think the Decepticons had bothered with mines or any other nasty surprises--their objective had been to strike hard and pull out with their prizes, near as he could tell--but that didn’t mean the Autobots could afford to get cocky. Soundwave might no longer be on-planet, but Starscream was a sneaky son of a glitch. Bumblebee wouldn’t put it past him to have used this ambush as an opportunity for surveillance or sabotage in addition to testing their defenses.

Thus far, though, he hadn’t found anything. Not even any Decepticons playing ‘possum’, as the humans liked to put it; all the frames he had found were well and truly offline, and not likely to wake up anytime soon. Not without a medic’s help, at least. He prodded Ransack’s half-slagged frame with one pede. As much as he liked a good fight, the aftermath never seemed to get any easier. Nor did the realization that with Megatron offworld, the Allspark gone … there just didn’t seem to be much point to it anymore.

 _//Southeast inner quadrant, clear,//_ he reported in, flagging the appropriate area for Teletraan. 

He left Ransack behind for pickup. Hoist and the others would be along eventually. He wasn’t sure what Optimus intended to do with this new batch of Decepticon prisoners. It wasn’t like giving them back to Megatron--again--was an option. Though given these were technically defectors, Bumblebee didn’t think much of their chances if Megatron ever got his talons on them. Which would undoubtedly factor in to whatever decision Optimus made. Thankfully, though, that wasn’t his problem.

Stepping over a buckled segment of fractured armor plate, he topped a small rise--and stopped short in surprise as his optics picked up a familiar gray frame down below. What was the Giant doing out here? Bumblebee had assumed the big mech was still safe inside the mountain with Sam and the others.

“Giant?” The yellow frontliner hurried over, pinging Ratchet with an update as he went. He didn’t think the aftermath of a battle was likely to trip the Giant’s defensive protocols, but that still didn’t mean it was anything they wanted the gentle mech to see. “Is something wrong?” he asked, looking him over for damage or other signs of distress. The only indicator he could find, however, was in the Giant’s field, which was unusually muted, flowing with dark, desaturated swirls of color.

“Friends broken,” the Giant said sadly, looking at the scattered bits of broken weaponry and other battlefield debris at his feet. He took a few careful steps forward, obviously trying very hard not to crush any of the metal bits underpede. It was a difficult task, to say the least.

“Don’t worry,” Bumblebee said, loading his field up with comforting resonances. “We took a few hard hits, but it’s nothing Ratchet can’t fix.” He moved closer, reaching out to pat the nearest gray leg in reassurance. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” 

The Giant nodded. “I find parts, help fix.” Scanning the area, he took a couple long strides over to a jumbled heap of torn up dirt and fractured metal. Crouching, he dug fingers into the pile, and pulled out a long, curving piece of plating.

A blue piece of plating, with a purple Decepticon insignia emblazoned on it. As the Giant straightened, Bumblebee could see the shape more clearly. It was a wing. More importantly, it was *Thundercracker’s* wing. Bumblebee winced.

“Um--Giant. That’s not … well, that mech …” Bumblebee fumbled for words, not sure what to do. Let the Giant take it back to Ratchet? Tell him just to leave it? It certainly wasn’t going to be of any use to anyone, though he knew the Wreckers would probably try to tack it to the wall as a trophy given half a chance. “That’s not from one of ours, Giant,” he finally said, settling on a compromise. “We’re not going to be able to use that to fix anyone. You can just leave it there, if you want ….” He trailed off, craning his helm upwards. “Giant?”

The big mech’s simple faceplates had shifted into an unhappy frown as he turned the wing over, looking at it. One finger traced the insignia, then the slagged edges where Bluestreak’s shot had torn through the metal. The Giant looked up at the sky--then downward, round white optics meeting Bumblebee’s worried blue. 

“Parts belong to-gether.” The words had an odd resonance to them, and Bumblebee belatedly realized that the Giant’s dark field was changing, the dark colors now shot through with threads of bright green, brilliant white arcs lighting up the edges of inchoate shapes. 

“What? Giant, I don’t think--”

“Parts belong to-gether,” the Giant said again. Cradling the wing as if it were a sparkling, he took one long step back. Then another. “I fix.”

“What? No, wait--!” But it was too late. The Giant crouched, then leaped into the sky, the thrusters on his pedes igniting with a roar. 

Bumblebee stumbled backwards under the backwash, flinching at the heat and pressure that beat against his sensory arrays. In the few astroseconds it took him to recover his footing, the Giant was already a tiny black shape receding into the distance. Heading east to Iran--and to the Decepticons.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _//Starscream won’t abandon us.//_ Thundercracker’s comm broke Skywarp out of his ever-tightening spiral of worry, the other Seeker’s calm providing, as always, counterweight to his wing-partner’s frenetic speculations. Thundercracker couldn’t hide his apprehension entirely, though, and an undercurrent of resignation/sorrow filtered through. _//Not when he still needs us. For the hatchlings’ sake, if nothing else.//_ Though all that might change once the clutch of hatchlings became fully-framed, adult warframes. Most of them would be Seekers--that much they already knew, given Starscream’s obsession with creating ever faster, ever stronger airframes. And Skywarp wouldn’t put it past Starscream to decide to create new trinemates for himself, especially if he deemed the current ones no longer of use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, and mentions of hatchling (infant) neglect and/or abuse, though nothing explicit or acted on. And much, much gratitude to Fractalserpent, who stepped in as co-author for this chapter, and who was invaluable in making Starscream and co. a great deal more badass and Decepticon-ly!

The leaden weight of Thundercracker’s frame was a heavy drag on his speed, even with the other Seeker clinging as close as his injuries allowed to Skywarp’s underchassis. Dirge’s trine hadn’t fared much better; under normal circumstances Skywarp might have been inclined to gloat, but right now it wasn’t very comforting. They’d left the Aerialsnots behind, at least, and none of the natives’ pathetic craft stood a chance of catching them in the air--but that didn’t lessen the apprehensive clench of his spark as he thought of what lay ahead.

Starscream … was not going to be happy.

Thundercracker stirred, effortlessly reading his wing-partner’s worry. He opened a limited comm-channel, careful not to let his own pain bleed over to his trinemates. _//--don’t worry, ‘Warp. Was my call. My idea.//_

_//I don’t think taking the blame will be enough, TC. Starscream … he doesn’t listen to us anymore. This could be worse than him ripping up your plating. This--what if he finally breaks the trine?//_

Next to losing the sky entirely, it was every Seeker’s greatest fear. The breaking of a trine: the loss of the two mecha that guarded your wings, that made the whole greater than the sum of its parts, whom you trusted to command and be commanded by in turn. For thousands of vorn, ever since Cometary’s death, the greatest weakness and the greatest strength of their trine had always been Starscream. Without that strength… none of them would survive. Not now, when there weren’t even enough Seekers left to fill an entire flight, much less any that either of them would consider as a wing-partner. 

Out between the stars, a broken trine might be able to survive … for a while. Until Megatron caught up to them, at least. But on this mudball, full of hostile natives and even more dangerous Autobots … a broken trine stood no chance at all. Skywarp just wished he knew whether Starscream was still sane enough to see that. 

_//Starscream won’t abandon us.//_ Thundercracker’s comm broke Skywarp out of his ever-tightening spiral of worry, the other Seeker’s calm providing, as always, counterweight to his wing-partner’s frenetic speculations. Thundercracker couldn’t hide his apprehension entirely, though, and an undercurrent of _resignation/sorrow_ filtered through. _//Not when he still needs us. For the hatchlings’ sake, if nothing else.//_ Though all that might change once the clutch of hatchlings became fully-framed, adult warframes. Most of them would be Seekers--that much they already knew, given Starscream’s obsession with creating ever faster, ever stronger airframes. And Skywarp wouldn’t put it past Starscream to decide to create new trinemates for himself, especially if he deemed the current ones no longer of use. 

Though given the hatchlings’ age--or lack of it--they wouldn’t need to worry about that for at least a few decavorn. Or at all, if his newest creations failed to measure up to Starscream’s exacting standards.

 _//You’re right, TC,//_ Skywarp said, resolutely pushing away his worries, focussing on the problems nearer to hand. Get back home. Survive Starscream’s wrath. Get Thundercracker fixed. Thundercracker’s wing … they’d been forced to leave it behind. And they’d already used most of their scavenged cybertronium and other offworld metals for other repairs. Without raw materials, without a true medic or engineer, could Thundercracker even be fixed? On Cybertron, even without a medic, Thundercracker’s self-repair would be able to take care of the damage on its own. He might be groundbound for a decavorn, but his wing would heal. But here ….

No. One thing at a time. Get back home. The rest … the rest he would have to leave to Starscream.

Primus help them all.

  


*********

  
Processors restarted, rerouted around new damage. System after system reported in, a cascade of redlines, pain-responses and self-repair reroutes that flooded his cortex with reports of _-torn plating, overstressed circuitry, weapons offline, transformation cog offline, gyros damaged, equilibrium compromised-_ too many to handle, to comprehend. Not that it mattered against the all-consuming red agony of his missing wing. He remembered vaguely that he’d blocked off the worst of the damage earlier; why wasn’t the block working? And why was he lying on the ground, on his damaged side, with autorepair pinging irritated reports of _-error error organic contamination-_ at him?

The rest of his memory nodes came online, unarchived files responding to his muddled query, attaching a source to the familiar ache in his frame: a null ray blast, at point-blank range. Starscream had been angry, had--

Oh. 

His audials and optics came online, but understanding lagged a nanoklick behind, sensory input taking second priority to damage reports. It took a moment to put meaning to what his audials were telling him: Starscream, still verbally shredding Skywarp and the rest of their ill-fated retrieval team, vocalizer crackling with furious static as his voice rose to a hunter’s shriek. 

“--you! Any of you! Even if you had succeeded, did you really think the Prime was going to let you keep his precious medic? Or the rest of Autoscum? Especially without any human hostages to leverage? How dare you go behind my back! You pathetic, half-clocked pieces of scrap--I should take you apart myself! The hatchlings can obviously put those processors to better use than you can!” Starscream’s familiar frame was a smear of white, red, and blue, haloed and indistinct as Thundercracker’s optics tried to focus, but the movement as he wheeled on Skywarp’s darker form was unmistakable. As was the prickling against Thundercracker’s plating--the building charge of a primed null ray cannon. “And as for *you*, Skywarp--”

Desperation had Thundercracker rerouting around damage queues, forcing up battle protocols enough to ignore his injuries, to push himself to his pedes. Once there, he staggered, tensors still numb from the aftereffects of the null ray. Skywarp stepped back, shouldering up to steady him, the two sides of their trine standing together against the third. Other than a brief status-inquiry check on Skywarp, Thundercracker kept his focus on Starscream. They couldn’t falter in this; not if they hoped to salvage what was left of their trine.

“Enough, Starscream.” Thundercracker kept his voice calm, tamping down his anger and building frustration. It was Starscream who’d gotten them into this, after all; who’d called them to Earth. At the time, Thundercracker hadn’t questioned it. Starscream had been Megatron’s second-in-command for hundreds of vorn. Over the course of the war, his ruthless cunning had eviscerated any number of would-be challengers in order to secure his position, and Skywarp and Thundercracker had always backed him, regardless of the cost. 

For while it had been Starscream’s mad strokes of brilliance and strategic genius, balanced by Skywarp’s lethal fighting skills, that had lifted all of them to the very top of the Decepticon hierarchy, it was Thundercracker’s solidity, the ability to see things as they were and keep the others from flying too far in pursuit of their obsessions, that had kept them there. 

It was a truth few grounders truly understood: that within the trine, all Seekers were equal. 

Starscream, ruthless Air Commander of the Decepticons, answerable only to Lord Megatron himself, was also their trineleader--but only when the trine needed him to be. For the secret behind the Seekers’ mastery of the skies was not in the speed and precision of their flight, or even in their absolute command of three-dimensional space. It was in the flexibility of their trines: the ability of Seekers to bond and fly in threes, to exchange positions with a flicker of a thought and a brush of a wingtip, to provide three ever-changing faces of offense and defense that sliced through lesser aerial formations before their enemies even realized what they faced. 

Rigid hierarchies, the formalities of Primes and Protectors, of officers and subordinates, might work well enough for grounders, might be necessary to maintain order and a chain of command. But Seekers--all Seekers--were lords of the air, each and every one. Not for them were the inflexible formations of grounders. In the sky, sacrificing the wings to protect the helm only served to ensure the death of the entire trine. Decisions were made in the circumstances of the moment, shifting and as changeable as the winds upon which they flew; not the stolid unity of a gestalt, but a three-part dance in which all the dancers fought and flew as one. 

This equality was essential to being a Seeker--and was something that Starscream seemed to have forgotten.

“That is enough,” Thundercracker repeated, straightening painfully as Starscream wheeled on them both. “Yes, we made another run on the Autobots, and failed. But we had no other choice; our supplies are critically short. The hatchlings--”

“What about them?” Starscream snapped. “They are Decepticons, not pathetic whimpering Autobots! They will grow and build their own frames, as I created them to do, and be all the stronger for it! And if they can’t manage even that, then they deserve to die.” Starscream’s words were harsh, unyielding, and Thundercracker knew that he meant every word. But he’d known Starscream long enough to also hear the desperation behind those words, the frustration of a creator unable to tinker and build the way his spark demanded... and the madness of a mech kept from his function for far too long.

“With what?” Thundercracker demanded. “Look around you, Starscream! What are the hatchlings going to use on this mudball of a planet? Dirt? Rocks? Where are they going to get the cybertronium they need, or any of the other metals? Are the hatchlings supposed to build suitable frames out of the natives’ pathetic alloys? Even if we had the facilities, we cannot demand large quantities of rare earths from the local humans, much less trithyllium or any other essential ores--they don’t have it for us to take!”

Starscream scowled, wings flaring. “And repairing your worthless circuits, how many parts will that take? You come crawling back with fourteen damaged mecha, and dare to whinge about my *hatchlings*?“

Thundercracker bristled. “You think that matters? Our supplies might have kept the hatchlings on the edge of stunting for a quarter vorn -- do you know what led me to this? To calling a raid -- do you? I found they’d pried open the humans’ shameful excuse for a mainframe, down in that Pit of a military bunker. They’d pulled it apart, Starscream, were doing their best to incorporate silicon chips and fragging *vacuum* tubes. Trying to thread their protometal into dead metal -- they brought me the parts in their talons, hoping I could give them what they needed, and I could do nothing! A medic could at least incubate--”

“--they do not need medics! They will learn! They will survive--”

Thundercracker barrelled on, not giving the other mech a chance to recover. “Yes, the hatchlings will survive. Even without a medic. Even without parts to incorporate or the metals they need. But if this goes on for long enough, they won’t be Seekers, Starscream--they won’t even be warframes. It will take them ten times as long to come into their adult frames, and when they do, those frames will be stunted: small, weak, with armor no better than the native machines. Is that what you want your newest creations to be? Throwbacks? Weakling *grounders*?”

“So I should scrap them now, then, and spare them such a fate?” Starscream snarled. “Is that what you want, Thundercracker?” He paced around them both, talons flexing, as if considering the idea. “Perhaps you’re right. If their only potential is to become useless grounders, then they are hardly worthy of being called my creations. Better to destroy them now, before they realize their worthlessness.” He paused in front of them both, scarlet optics narrowed and considering. “Or I could decide to scrap certain other useless mecha. Deactivated frames would provide the metals I need, and many of the parts. The hatchlings, after all, have not failed me. Yet.”

It was not the first time Starscream had made such a threat. But there was a distant madness in that scarlet gaze that Thundercracker had never seen before, as if Starscream were not looking at his trinemates, nor even fellow mecha, but just … raw materials. As if they were no more than convenient assemblages of spare parts.

“Starscream--” Starscream’s trinemates, his creations, all the others that had rallied to Starscream’s call--were they all so easily discarded? Thundercracker was afraid to ask. Ultimately, it didn’t matter; emotional appeals would not persuade Starscream, were not what the trine needed. Long experience told him that reason and cold, diamond-edged practicality were far better weapons to use in a battle like this. “If you scrap the mecha here, your creations will have no defenders. You don’t think the local squishies won’t take advantage of that? You saw what they did to Lord Megatron. A hatchling would stand no chance at all; the humans would steal as many as they could get their paws on, just to take them apart, piece by piece--”

He could feel Skywarp bristle instinctively at his back, a ripple of revulsion and deep-coded protective fury that washed outward, through the rest of the nearby warframes, the electric spark of weapons shifting towards readiness prickling against his sensors. In this, at least, all them were in agreement. They’d rather see the hatchlings dead than left to the humans’ tender mercies.

Thundercracker continued, ignoring the inquiring pings from distant sentries disturbed by their battlebrothers’ unease, the nearly inaudible chirps of distressed--but still well-hidden, thank Primus--hatchlings. “We can’t afford to lose any of our warframes, Starscream.” Including the ones they’d had to leave behind in that last sortie, Primus damn it. “Turning Sharkticon won’t help us--not unless you want to drive them right back into Megatron’s claws. None of us want to see the last Seekers of Vos turned into ground-crawling drudges, into scrap-plated Constructicon haulers. But if we are to stay, we need to find a better way. Either by finding some weakness we can exploit in order to take what we need, or--” he hesitated, steeling himself for the inevitable explosion, “By asking for help.” 

Starscream wheeled on them, weapons humming with charge, wings and plating bristling with barely-leashed aggression. “Never! We are Seekers! We are Decepticons, the rightful inheritors of Cybertron! I will see every last hatchling deactivated, and you with them, before I crawl to the Autobots and beg for their help!” The tacnet sparked to life as the watching Decepticons stirred, priority-indicators shifting towards combat-readiness, the air rife with tension. Brawling among the ranks was common, even necessary. It helped establish the ever-shifting hierarchy of precedence among Seekers, lesser airframes, and grounders. But to have all three members of the Command Trine on the verge of open war … that was far more serious, with far-reaching consequences.

Thundercracker felt Skywarp shift, ready to step forward to shield his wingmate’s damaged side. He moved instead, angling his frame between them. “Then find us a better way, Starscream!” he threw into those furious faceplates. “Give us the weapons we need, the leverage we can use. You’ve never failed us, not in hundreds of vorn of war--find us the way, and we will fly with you, fight for you! But do not ask us to sit here and rust while we watch the hatchlings--your creations--become stunted, wingless shadows of the mecha they might have been!”

“You dare--” Whatever else Starscream might have said--or done--was lost, however, as a high priority comm sliced through their queues. 

_//Lord Starscream, Commanders--we have incoming.//_ Acid Storm, terse as always. His trine had been out on a long-range patrol; now they were heading back towards the base, and fast. Which begged the question: why? Who--or what--were they chasing?

 _//If it’s those pathetic Aerialsnots--//_ Starscream began, only to receive an instant--and very emphatic--reply from Acid Storm. 

_//It isn’t. It isn’t even an airframe. It’s that strange alien mech; the one that kept Skywarp from grabbing Ratchet. I never would have believed it, but he’s got thrusters, Starscream. He’s not even in an alt, and he’s flying alone--but he’s coming in fast, and he’s going to be over you in just a few more kliks.//_

A flurry of annoyance and shared indignation met that news, the trine setting aside their argument to close ranks against this new threat. Thundercracker watched his wingmates’ optics narrow as they considered the news, wings tilting upward. 

_//Take him down,//_ Starscream ordered. The mech might be armored enough to withstand Skywarp’s attack, but there wasn’t a mech created whose armor could stand up Sunstorm if his trine let him off the chain. _//I don’t care what he is; he’s an Autobot and he’s in our sky.//_

 _//Yes, but--//_ Acid Storm’s confusion rippled over the comm, overlaid with glyphs of _reassessment/uncertainty. //Creator ... he’s carrying-//_

_//Raze him from our airspace, Acid Storm, or I swear to Primus that I will strip you all for parts!//_

A nanoclick passed, an eternity for a Seeker. _//But--//_ Acid Storm started, and Thundercracker came to a decision.

 _//Escort the mech in, but keep him at least a filum from the hatchlings,//_ Thundercracker ordered, countermanding Starscream and layering his message with authoritative modifiers. He could feel the shock flare in Starscream’s field, followed by rage as hot as afterburners. With a sense of inevitability, he watched that cannon barrel swing toward him, glowing white-hot with gathering charge. 

Thundercracker’s support vanished as Skywarp lunged forward. Starscream fired; Skywarp knocked the other Seeker’s arm to one side, sending the blast wide, talons gouging inward as he grappled with their furious wingmate. With Thundercracker’s frame as damaged as it was, though, even the backwash of the null ray blast was enough to throw him backwards, knocking still-fragile systems reeling. There was the clash of metal on metal, Skywarp’s shouting blurring with Starscream’s furious shriek. 

Flat on his back, tanks roiling, error codes shrieking warnings across every processor, Thundercracker still noticed the intruder. Just a dot on the horizon to his blurry optics, chased by three smaller dots, but rocketing closer by the nanoklick. 

And headed straight for them. 

“Get the hatchlings away!” Thundercracker shouted -- or tried to, the glyphs garbled, his vocalizer glitching with the damage done by the blast. What did Acid Storm think he was *doing*? He scrabbled at the ground, talons scraping into the dirt as he tried to push himself up, tried to force combat protocols and weapons-systems to the fore. The mech was still coming, impossibly fast; Thundercracker could feel the subtle changes in local electromagnetism, the planetary field fluxes that heralded the shockwaves of their intruder’s passage. Vibrations reverberated painfully over his plating as heavy pedes pounded the earth, mecha scrambling to draw up formations. Several grounders transformed and fled, spiked wheels churning up the stony soil -- mecha carrying concealed hatchlings, he hoped. No human-made bunker would be safe for the soft-bodied little protoforms, not during a Cybertronian firefight. 

Starscream and Skywarp were a tangle of snarling, screeching metal. Another concussive null ray blast ripped through the ground, blasting dust and pebbles into the air -- and then the vibrating roar of thrusters overtook everything else, pounding against audials, beating against the air. Warframes staggered backwards as dust and sand roiled upwards, clouding the air. Visibility dropped to nothing even as his sensors reported something huge and impossibly dense right on top of them--

A shadow dropped over Thundercracker’s prone form, heat searing against his backplates. With a strut-shaking *boom*, the heat vanished as suddenly as it had come. Thundercracker cycled his optics, trying to bludgeon his sensors into functionality as the dust cleared. He lifted his helm … and found himself in the shadow of an immense mech, as big as a gestalt. 

The creature looked down at him with round white optics, tilting its helm consideringly. Then it crouched, leg-components folding with disconcerting suddenness. His spark lurching, Thundercracker scrambled backwards, trying to gain some distance, to bring his weapons to bear. The mech rumbled, a subvocalized tremor Thundercracker could feel more than hear, then reached out, fingers cupped. 

In those primitive, four-fingered hands … was his severed wing.

“Parts … belong together,” the big mech rumbled--in English, of all things--apparently oblivious to the bristling warframes surrounding them both.

Thundercracker stared up at the big mech. Then looked over at his wingmates, both of whom had frozen in mid-struggle--Skywarp’s talons still firmly embedded in Starscream’s cervical cables--to stare at the interloper. Slowly, Thundercracker climbed to his pedes, trying to ignore the way he staggered on the way up. The mech didn’t move, except to proffer the wing again, its field warm and friendly, as if coaxing him to take an energon treat.

An Autobot had flown over seven thousand miles, charging alone into enemy territory … all just to give him back his wing? Was the creature glitched? 

“Don’t just stand there, fool!” Starscream hissed, apparently having lost patience with Thundercracker’s dithering. “Take it!” Before the big mech decided he wanted to to keep it as a toy, or a trophy, Thundercracker knew Starscream meant. Or even to crush it in front of him; if the mech were a Decepticon, he probably already would have, just to show how powerless Thundercracker was to prevent it.

Stumbling forward, Thundercracker snatched his wing out of those broad hands. Holding it close, he retreated again to a safer distance, watching the big mech warily. He looked like a warframe, was armored like a warframe--but he wasn’t acting like one. Where were his weapons? The alien mech didn’t seem inclined to leave, either. Now that it had delivered its prize, he stayed where he was, tilting his oddly blunted helm to look down at the mecha surrounding him.

 _//Is he … trying to defect?//_ Skywarp asked over their trine-channel, echoes of bafflement/unease underscoring the message. _//Or surrender? Or is he just glitched beyond belief?//_ They could attack, they all knew, their forces had fallen into formation, the Rainmakers still circled overhead, awaiting their command … but even surrounded by warframes, the big mech didn’t seem frightened. Uneasy, perhaps, but not afraid. Why? And where had this thing come from?

“Your orders, sir?” Blackout asked, his frame tensed, rotors spread in an unsubtle threat. The tacnet was quiescent for the moment, waiting … thrumming with the subliminal hum of position-checks and charged weapons-systems. One word from any of the Command trine, and their forces would attack, their assembled firepower ripping this thing to shreds. Perhaps it was the knowledge that they had the upper hand … that made them hesitate.

 _//Could be an opportunity,//_ Thundercracker offered, never taking his eyes off the big mech. _//You wanted a hostage, Starscream. Wonder what the Autobots would give to get this thing back?//_  
  


**********

Bumblebee’s frantic transmission took only seconds to reach all the Autobots on base--but in those few seconds, the Giant had already broken the sound barrier, disappearing over the horizon and leaving panicked chaos in his wake.

Apparently Primus had decided to once again teach Optimus a fundamental lesson: that just when you thought you had planned for every contingency, the universe itself conspired to prove you wrong.

Optimus was already moving; he had been conferring with Lennox and several of the local NEST officers about how to handle medic stations and duty rosters, but Bumblebee’s comm changed everything. Turning on one pede, he charged towards the base, even as Teletraan and Prowl handled the sudden surge of overlapping, frantic comms. The babble came from multiple sources: from the humans, already on edge and ready to shoot anything they perceived as a threat out of their airspace, never mind that the Giant was not likely to be in American airspace for much longer; from the Aerialbots, who were eager for another fight and already in the air, wanting to chase down the wayward mech; and from worried and confused ground-bound Autobots.

_//Why would he--?//_

_//Why didn’t you stop him, Bumblebee??//_

_//--I tried, he was too fast, I never expected--//_

_//If the humans try to shoot him down--//_

_//Frag that, if the *Decepticons* try to shoot him down--!//_

_//We need to roll out, Axalon is on standby, Optimus, Prowl, orders--?//_

Optimus ignored them all, except to send an imperative negative to Prowl’s requests for mobilization. Sending troops after the Giant--especially newly arrived Aerialbots, who could be overly aggressive at the best of times--into the Middle East would not prevent a disaster. It would only create a larger one. But at the same time, he had given his word to Hogarth that he would protect the big mech, and a Prime’s oath was not lightly given.

No. He would not just stand by and watch the Giant die. Nor would he watch another world tear itself apart. Not again. 

He ran for the main cavern and his trailer, Autobots scattering out of the path of their Prime’s charge. Then a much larger mech, resplendent in white and red with broad, folded wings, stepped deliberately forward, blocking his way.

“Move, Skyfire! I need that flight tech--if I can get into the air, perhaps I can catch the Giant, reason with him--”

“You cannot do this, my Prime.” Skyfire’s expression was calm, his stance determined. And given his size, Optimus knew, there would be no way he could move the shuttlemech without harming him. 

“I must do this! You do not understand what is at risk. If the Decepticons attack the Giant--”

“I understand enough,” Skyfire interjected firmly. “Optimus, my Prime--do not misunderstand me. I know of Jetfire’s gift; it may give you the freedom of the air, but you are still a groundframe. You are not built for that kind of speed. You will never catch him. Not now.”

Ratchet barrelled up in his alt, transforming as he went, vents blown wide with exertion. “Listen to him, Optimus,” he snapped. Energon and soot were still liberally smeared over his plating, evidence of the patients he had left behind, and Optimus felt another pang of guilt. “You’re not a Seeker, frag it! Even if you could go fast enough to catch the Giant, there’s no way you could carry enough energon to make it far enough--you’ll be empty within a thousand miles. You CAN’T do this!” He gave Skyfire a significant look. “Not alone.”

Skyfire nodded. “I am low on energon, but I have enough reserves to make it to the other side of the planet. I can take you to Iran, my Prime.”

“And I’m coming too,” Ratchet added. 

“Ratchet, you are needed here. There are too many damaged mecha here who still need your attention, and you are too valuable to risk,” Optimus protested, feeling the situation spiral even faster out of his control.

“All the wounded are stabilized. Wheeljack’s back online, and with Hoist, Que, and Flipsides all here, there’s more than enough expertise at hand to make sure they stay that way. And I think our only Prime is a little bit more important than I am. Besides, it’s obvious those fraggers want a medic, and badly. If they’re desperate enough to do something like this, then it’s better I go to them before they decide to escalate things further.” Ratchet scowled at him. “I’m not staying behind, Optimus. If you go, I go.”

 _//Optimus: I am mobilizing an insertion team to accompany you. Jazz is en route and will be there within a klik,//_ Prowl said, his comm suffused with glyphsets of frame specs, Autobot movements and availability.

 _//Negative, Prowl,//_ Optimus answered, wide-banding the channel to include all the Autobot command staff. _//The more Autobots and weaponry we bring, the more inevitable the battle we are trying to avoid will be. Except for Skyfire--//_ he hesitated, glancing over where Ratchet still stood. The medic scowled at him, his expression promising dire consequences if Optimus tried to leave him behind. Reluctantly, Optimus bowed to the inevitable. _//--and Ratchet, I will go alone.//_

 _//Optimus--//_ the protest came from multiple mecha, multiple minds, dissolving into a chaotic cloud of _//--too dangerous!--are you glitched?--let us help let us guard--//_

 _//Enough.//_ Optimus sliced through it all, invoking a Prime’s immutable authority. _//I will do this thing.//_ It seemed madness to try it all, much less with their only Prime and only Earth-based medic. But something in his spark told him this was right, was necessary in a fundamental way that had nothing to do with logic or reason. 

He turned to Skyfire. “Skyfire--are you sure you wish to do this? You may be giving yourself over as a hostage, or worse. Starscream … may not be inclined to be reasonable.” Skyfire and Starscream had been cohort-mates once. But the war had driven them apart long ago, as it had so many, and it was unlikely that Starscream had forgiven that betrayal. Optimus and Ratchet might be useful as hostages, if worse came to worst; Skyfire had no such protection.

“I do,” Skyfire said simply. “It has been long enough. I will protect you, my Prime, for as long as I am able. Shall we fly?”

Optimus inclined his helm, acknowledging that courage the only way he could. “We shall, my friend.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream never hesitated, rocketing towards the bigger mech. _//You dare come *here*, Skyfire?//_ he shouted over an open channel, uncaring of who else might hear. _//I'll tear your wings off and see you entombed in this planet’s seas before I allow your exhaust anywhere near my sky, you traitorous wretch!//_

Blitzwing was bored. Very, very bored. 

Beating up on his brothers had worked for a while, and jumping-falling-pushing each other off tall things was pretty fun. But soon they’d found ALL the tall things, and there weren’t any bigger! Which was just not right. How were they supposed to fly without taller and taller things? And he knew he was supposed to fly--to be the biggest and strongest and the best, to fly faster and farther and through anything that tried to stop him. Creator had said so!

But then some of the other big mecha had left. And when they’d come back, there was fighting and Creator was angry and they’d had to hide and be _small-secret-safe_ inside their watchers’ armor. Which wasn’t fair--Blitzwing wanted to fight too! And then more mecha were angry, and then they were _angry/scared_ , and all of his brothers had been told by their watchers to _hide-be-safe-don’t-move_ , and you didn’t argue with your watchers (except when you did), so they’d hid.

But now everything was quiet, and Blitzwing was bored. He wanted to be out! And Dropshot wasn’t even paying attention to him. If Blitzwing were careful and quiet, it would be so easy just to stick his helm out of his hiding spot, just a little bit, and peek over the bigger mech’s shoulder.... He moved, just a little, seeing if his watcher would notice. The bigger mech didn’t react, so he uncurled a little more, moving in tiny increments, hooking talons into plate edges until he could lift himself up. A little higher ... a little further ... And then his helm was out, and he could peep around Dropshot’s shoulder-cannon, just a bit, and ...

Oh. OH.

Blitzwing barely managed to stifle his cheep of excitement. A _mountain,_ there was a metal mountain, right there! Twice as tall as the tallest thing, and so close! Hard to climb maybe but that made getting to the top all the better! And once there ... Blitzwing would be able to see *everything*. Mismatched optics narrowed, tiny claws fisted, Blitzwing checked again to see if Dropshot had noticed. The groundframe hadn’t. He was too busy listening to Creator yell. 

Blitzwing seized his chance, edging carefully downward, bit by bit. There was the clang of metal on metal; Dropshot shifted uneasily, armor flaring, and Blitzwing used that distraction to cover his drop to the ground. Once there, he froze--had the bigger mech noticed he was gone?

But that helm didn’t turn, and no one told him to go back. So he *had* to go forward. Especially since he could feel the burgeoning _interest/impatience_ of his brothers ... they were bored too. Soon they would see the mountain and want it. Blitzwing had to get there first! 

All the other big mecha were watching it, though, and pointing their weapons at it. How was he to get on top without being seen? Primitive tactical subroutines ticked over, assessing odds, taking in the terrain. The mountain had a long shadow, and Blitzwing was very small. If he changed his colors and used the rocks as cover ...

Blitzwing skittered sideways, staying just inside the blind spot of a tankframe’s passive sensor sweeps. It was hard, sometimes, to move just right, but Blitzwing could do it because he was smart, much smarter than his brothers. Creator hadn’t told him that, but Blitzwing had figured it out on his own, which just proved how smart he was. Changing his colors was easy--he and the others did it all the time, trying to figure out which ones they liked the best--and soon his plating was the same dusty-brown-gray blotchy patterns he’d seen on some of the machines the squishies had left behind. 

He froze, half-flattened to the dusty ground, as one of the nearby watchers shifted, secondary optics scanning for movement. Then Hailstorm turned away, and Blitzwing darted for the mountain’s long shadow. Once there, he looked up. And up. 

And up.

It was so TALL. Maybe it didn’t even have a top at all! Like the stories the big mecha told, of Vos and the Towers-that-were, the ones that reached so high into the sky that you could jump right off and never hit the ground…. 

Blitzwing flexed his little claws in eagerness. He crouched low between two lumpish stones as a scan passed over him and then skittered forward. Finding a nice seam between two giant metal plates, just large enough to afford purchase for tiny talons, he began to climb.

 

**********

 

Far below, the argument continued.

“Trade for it? *Trade* for it?! Do you seriously believe the Autobots will negotiate for the return of this--” Starscream sneered, jabbing a disdainful talon in the giant’s direction, where the creature now sat quietly under heavy guard, watching them all with its single pair of huge white optics, “--this half-clocked sparring drone?!”

“It is fast,” Skywarp pointed out, armor rippling in a shrug. “Maybe it’s some kind of unfinished war machine?” Whatever it was, it either didn’t understand Cybertronian or was just too stupid to understand that it was being insulted, because the big mech showed no signs of being offended by Starscream’s verbal abuse. Or by anything else, for that matter--the thing was surrounded by at least fifteen veteran Decepticon warframes, all ready to attack at the slightest word, and it didn’t seem to care. It just sat there, helm tilted to the side, watching them argue.

“If it is, then it has useable parts,” Starscream snarled. 

Parts and tanks full of processed energon, most likely -- though it was hard to tell through that much armor. Skywarp studiously avoided glancing at Thundercracker. Anything which kept Starscream from turning *that* look on his trinemates -- that assessing, level, and oh-so-mad stare that measured and weighed the very gears in their frames-- was a good thing, in his opinion. Especially given Thundercracker’s returned wing. That many high-quality components would keep the hatchlings in parts for... he didn’t want to think about it. 

It didn’t feel right, turning Starscream loose on something that had showed up with a peace gesture. A fraggin’ stupid peace gesture, to be sure, but still.... Skywarp couldn’t think of a single other Autobot that would have done something like that. Well, maybe Ratchet would have, but every mech knew medics were glitched, and warframe medics were a law unto themselves. Decepticon or Autobot, it didn’t matter; either you let them put you back together, or you found yourself being dismantled for spare parts. 

But frag, if it kept their slightly-glitched wingmate’s optics away from TC, Skywarp would hand over a fritzing wardrone to Starscream in a sparkbeat. “Don’t much like the idea of giving back a half-finished weapon to the Autoscum,” he put in. “Even if it’s glitched now, they could fix it, turn it on us.” 

“Lord Starscream, Commanders ... they could have tracked this thing. How do we know the Autobots don’t know our location already?” added Stormcloud, rotors clacking as he shuffled them uneasily. 

Skywarp bristled. “You fragging think we wouldn’t have noticed if this thing had a beacon or cross-planet comms?” he snapped, hoping desperately that the rotary had sense enough to keep quiet. Last thing any of them needed was Starscream deciding to take apart more than just this...giant thing. And threatening the troops with cannibalism? Rarely a prime idea. At least the grounders would be safe from Starscream. Probably. Maybe.

“Primus below,” Thundercracker hissed, helm jerking back, optics spiraling down to pinpricks as he scanned the horizon. “Where the frag are the border sentin--”

The Rainmakers, still positioned with the others to keep the giant mech under guard, jerked as one, wings flaring in alarm. The other Seekers could feel it now, too -- the subtle shifts of pressure and magnetism that heralded a body in the upper atmosphere. And the Decepticons had no troops in the air. 

With Seekers, however, that could change in a sparkbeat. Starscream was the first to transform, leaping into the air and shifting to his alt in a matter of moments. Engines roared to life as he streaked into the sky to intercept. Acid Storm, Sunstorm, and Slipstream weren’t far behind, leaving the rest of the airframes and groundfarmes to scramble into defensive positions that still allowed them to guard their giant intruder.

Skywarp ... hesitated. He glanced at his wounded wingmate.

“Go,” Thundercracker ordered, giving him a wordless push of _confidence/battle/territorial imperative_. “I’ll handle things from here. Watch Starscream’s wings. Keep him safe, if you can.” Starscream in a temper was a mech more than capable of cutting his nosecone off to spite his face, as the humans liked to say. 

“Got it.” Skywarp glanced over at the big mech, who didn’t appear to be doing anything other than looking upward, just like all the other grounders. Then Skywarp shook his helm. Thundercracker was a Seeker, not a hatchling or a weakling Autobot. If that wardrone tried anything, Thundercracker would take it apart, wing or no wing. Transforming, Skywarp leaped into the sky, the roar of his engines proclaiming his defiance of gravity’s downward pull. In seconds, he’d caught up to the others, falling into place on Starscream’s wingtip.

The tacnet flowered open, familiar and comforting, as all five Seekers connected to each other. In the absence of a TCO, the net was centered around Starscream, who took the lead as they all shared the information their sensors gave them, trying to determine the nature of the enemy.

 _//--is it the Aerials?//_ Sunstorm was particularly scornful of the Autobot flyers. Not only because they were weakling upstarts, but also because they were a gestalt. What kind of airframes would allow themselves to combine into such a clumsy, heavy, *wingless* form? 

_//Only one signature, coming in from the upper atmosphere,//_ Acid Storm put in.

 _//A shuttlemech?//_ asked Slipstream, only to have whatever else he was about to say washed away in the incandescent wave of Starscream’s fury.

 _//I know that signature .... SKYFIRE!!!//_ Starscream shot forward, thrusters burning white-hot. Only Skywarp stayed with him, the others caught by surprise as Starscream rocketed upward on twisting pillars of plasmic flame. It didn’t take long for Skyfire’s distinctive white frame to become visible, his plating glowing from the atmospheric burn. 

Starscream never hesitated, rocketing towards the bigger mech. _//You dare come *here*, Skyfire?//_ he shouted over an open channel, uncaring of who else might hear. _//I'll tear your wings off and see you entombed in this planet’s seas before I allow your exhaust anywhere near my sky, you traitorous wretch!//_

But it wasn’t Skyfire who replied. Skywarp nearly stalled out in shock as a new presence joined the channel, glyphs resonant with authority.

_//Starscream, this is Optimus Prime. We come in peace. There are no other Autobots aboard other than myself and Ratchet. We ask for your forbearance and your understanding; we have come only in the hopes of retrieving a friend and perhaps to forge a temporary truce.//_

_//Optimus ….//_ Starscream drew the name out into a sibilant hiss, and Skywarp could feel the hate as it warred with cunning. If Optimus was telling the truth, then they’d hardly get a better chance to rid themselves of him once and for all. On the other hand, shuttlemecha in general were not easy targets, and Skyfire was a veteran flyer--he’d be tougher than most. A couple of trines might be able to force him down, but if the Prime joined the battle on the ground …. Even alone, one did not take a mech who had gone toe to toe with Lord Megatron--and won--lightly. They *might* be able to overwhelm Optimus with sheer numbers but not without taking heavy losses. Losses they couldn’t afford. Not yet.

Plus there was Ratchet to consider, and the hatchlings … and that big wardrone thing still waiting far below …. Trying to consider all the variables and weigh all the resulting outcomes made his processors spin. Long-term planning had never been Skywarp’s forte--he much preferred the immediacy of battlefield tactics, the split-second decisions of aerial combat. 

Acid Storm and the others had caught up, taking attack positions above and to either side of the descending shuttle. Skyfire had not changed his course or tried to evade, still descending at almost twice the speed of sound; the Seekers matched him effortlessly, their smaller, sleeker frames far more agile for atmospheric flight. The other trine pinged inquiries at Starscream--at their current rate of speed, they’d be inside of the local humans’ airspace in a matter of Earth-seconds. _//Orders, Lord Starscream?//_ Acid Storm sent, cool and ready. This was no strange alien wardrone. Shuttles, they knew how to handle.

 _//You were a fool to come here, Prime,//_ Starscream snarled, null rays sparking with charge. _//Truce? You send your half-clocked drone into MY territory, and then want to talk about a truce? Do you think I’m as pathetic as Megatron? That I would grovel at your pedes and beg for mercy as he did?//_

 _//No, Starscream. I do not think you are a fool.//_ The exchange was lightning swift, comms exchanged in flickers of electric-thought. Still, the ground was approaching rapidly, the squishies squawking threats over their own simple frequencies. Despite the urgency of the communication, Skywarp could feel the sincerity, the regret and the unyielding determination that filtered over the channel. _//I know you are a Creator. I know you are more than you have been allowed to be--and I know about the hatchlings.//_

A ripple of _fear/anger_ sparked through the tacnet--the Autobots knew!--but before that fear could be acted upon, Optimus continued. _//I have a medic aboard who is willing to make any repairs they might need and extra stores of energon. I did not come to fight. Only to speak with my friend … and to beg an audience with you.//_

*That* brought Starscream up short. Skywarp could feel his wingmate’s anger and fear turn into intrigued suspicion. Skywarp had to admire the Prime’s cleverness, at least in the privacy of his own processors. One sure way to persuade Starscream to do anything was by appealing to his ego. Starscream, give up the chance to have Optimus Prime himself grovel at his pedes? This planet’s piddly yellow sun would burn out first.

_//--very well, Prime. We will allow you to land with your offerings and make your case. But if there is even one other mech aboard, we will ensure that you will not live long enough to regret your deception!//_

_//We understand. Your forbearance is greatly appreciated, Airlord.//_ It took more than a little effort to ignore the way the Prime’s gratitude resonated over his plating. Frag, that voice alone was one hell of a weapon. Skywarp had heard it before, of course, commanding the Autoscum in countless battles--but never so close and never with such warmth. It was … kinda unnerving, the way it made him *want* to listen.

Starscream cut the open channel, cutting back on his engines to swing into position on Skyfire’s wing, shouldering dangerously close. Such a maneuver would have been beyond risky for a lesser airframe; shuttlemecha might be less maneuverable in the air, but their extra mass also caused a great deal more turbulence. Worse, that same mass could also be used to destructive effect against a smaller opponent. One small shift or quick turn would be all Skyfire needed to leverage his far greater bulk against his opponents. It was a brutal tactic, but an effective one, and Skywarp had seen it used in countless battles against luckless airframes. 

Assuming, of course, that you were dealing with ordinary airframes. Seekers--who had the skill and the speed to outmaneuver any airframe, regardless of size--made their own luck.

The tacnet was humming with tension, the Rainmakers closing in. They could be a klik away before Skyfire even began to move, could change direction and altitude with little more than a flicker of thought and intention. 

_//Thundercracker,//_ Starscream snapped over the trine-channel. 

_//I’ve sent the hatchling-guardians to the outer perimeter, Starscream,//_ came Thundercracker’s steady reply. _//They’ll be well clear by the time you land.//_

_//Acceptable. Set up a defensive line to receive us. If a single mech other than Optimus or Ratchet shows up on your scans once we’re on the ground--//_

_//We’ll be ready.//_ Thundercracker’s answer was flat and final. In this, at least, the trine was in full agreement. They held the upper hand; no matter what Optimus had planned, they would not be caught off-guard.

Escorted by Seekers, Skyfire continued his steep descent, dumping speed as they neared the ground. The squishies continued to squawk, however, until Skywarp finally lost his patience. 

He cut into their channels, silencing them with a piercing feedback squeal before transmitting in the natives’ local jabber. _//The intruder has been intercepted. This is a violation of Decepticon airspace, and a Decepticon matter. We will take care of the Autoscum--do not interfere. Understood?//_

He cut off the frequency, not bothering to wait for the humans’ slow processors to come up with a reply. They might not like it, but Starscream had delivered a few object lessons early in his negotiations--ones designed to ensure that even dimbulb organics would think twice before interfering in Decepticon affairs--and they would keep their distance. It hadn’t taken much to impress upon the humans that betraying allies who could level their pathetic little warren-cities from orbit was a Very Bad Idea.

Skyfire made his approach, circling once before landing, Starscream and Skywarp both following him down. The Rainmakers stayed in the air, wheeling high to cut off any possible escape from that direction, and now that the shuttlemech was within range of the ground troops’ weaponry, the Autobots were well and truly boxed in. Just how Starscream wanted them.

Transforming, Starscream landed with pinpoint precision, Skywarp a sparkbeat behind. He stalked towards Skyfire, not bothering to hide his savage satisfaction. “Skyfire. After all these millennia, you are finally at my disposal,” he purred, talons flexing. “Your arrival is timely. I find myself short of raw materials in order to finish my work, and your wings will serve nicely.”

 _//It is good to see you again, Starscream,//_ Skyfire said calmly over an open channel, as if his former cohortmate had not just threatened to vivisect him. _//Regardless of the circumstances. I am glad you are well--when I heard reports of the events on Earth, I feared I would not have this chance.//_ The Decepticons on the perimeter stirred, a flurry of weapons-checks streaking back and forth across the tacnet as the shuttle’s rear hatch opened.

“This chance to--what? Beg for my forgiveness? It’s far too late for that, Autobot!” Starscream snarled, making the designation an epithet.

“It is too late for many things, Starscream,” Optimus said as he descended from Skyfire’s hatch. “But I hope never for forgiveness.” He stepped off the rampway, hands held carefully open at his sides in acknowledgment of the bristling warframes around him. Ratchet was only a few steps behind, his field flaring with an unsubtle mix of _protectiveness/irritation/determination_ as he surveyed the assembled Decepticons. Skywarp bristled, firmly squashing the urge to step in front of Thundercracker as that narrow-opticked gaze swept over his wounded wingmate.

Optimus and Ratchet both stepped a careful distance away, giving Skyfire room. The shuttlemech transformed, rising up on both pedes, towering over most of the mecha around him, including the Prime--though not quite overtopping the seated wardrone.

Apparently the drone had noticed as well. “Big,” it said--appreciatively, near as Skywarp could tell, though it was hard to know for sure, considering the thing’s blank faceplates and chaotic field. 

“It is good to meet you as well,” Skyfire said courteously, as if he wasn’t standing in the middle of enemy territory. “I regret that we did not have the chance to talk before your departure.” He paused, glancing at Starscream. “I can understand why you made such a rash decision, Giant. But I think we all wish you would have waited at least long enough to explain your intentions.”

“Enough!” Starscream snapped before the creature could reply, and there was an unmistakable note of jealousy in that flare of temper. Skywarp shifted his weight subtly, devoting a few secondary threads to keeping a wary optic on his wingmate as well as the Autobots. Starscream pointed an accusing digit at Optimus. “You. Prime. You have a klik to explain the presence of this *thing*, not to mention yourselves.” 

Starscream’s field was a morass of anger and fear, wrapped in calculation and more than a little satisfaction. His faceplates, however, were set and hard. Starscream was a mech who never forgot and only rarely forgave. Skywarp had joked more than once that Starscream didn’t need energon--even with empty tanks, their wingmate could outfly them all on nothing more than malice and spite. His hate had kept Starscream alive, after all. It had allowed him to survive the death of his function and his world, to fly higher and farther and to transform himself beyond any creator-mech’s wildest imaginings. Starscream had forged both his hate and himself into an unparallelled weapon, and those who forgot that rarely lived long enough to regret their mistake.

Optimus would have to do some serious grovelling if he expected to get out of here in one piece. Personally, Skywarp didn’t think he had it in him. Optimus might be a soft-sparked fool and a traitor to their species, but he was still a Prime, and Primes didn’t beg. 

“Very well,” Optimus said. “The Giant came, I believe, to help Thundercracker. And we followed, in order to try and protect our friend--and to aid you, if you will allow it.”

Skywarp flicked his wings backward, not bothering to disguise his scorn. “Yeah, right--Autobots helping the likes of us? Pull the other one, Prime--it’s got balls--”

“--bells--” Thundercracker muttered.

“--bells on it.” Human sayings were endlessly entertaining, but even Skywarp had to admit that most of them made no sense. Which only added to the entertainment value, really, especially when he could confuse the slag out of other mecha with them. “Just admit it. You sent this wardrone thing to test us--and when we left it alive, you decided to see if we’d gone soft. You probably thought we’d just roll over and show our bellies, now that Megatron’s gone. Did you honestly think we’d beg for your help?”

“Not at all,” came the calm reply. Optimus looked between the three of them, including them all equally. At least he knew that much about dealing with a trine, Skywarp begrudgingly noticed. “I would have chosen to approach you before now, Airlords, if I believed there was any chance of peace. Even with the recent attacks, I did not wish to spark further hostilities. The Giant, however--” he indicated the watching wardrone, “--in his innocence, has broken our stalemate, and I could not in good conscience stand by and allow his generous gesture to spark the war anew. Regardless of the guilt that we might carry, the Giant does not deserve such a fate--and neither does this world.”

Starscream bristled. “This world is not yours to claim, Prime! Regardless of what your human allies may have told you, the skies of this pathetic mudball are ours, and we will not relinquish them! Your arrival has only delayed this thing’s execution, and once we are done with *it*-” he swung an arm to point one null-ray at the wardrone’s faceplates, “-we will do the same to you, and claim this world for ourselves!”

The giant mech flinched backwards, one hand lifting as if to ward off the blast. Ratchet lunged forward, smacking Starscream’s arm to one side and placing himself between the two much larger mecha. “Put that away, you fool!” he hissed, glaring. 

Skywarp could feel Thundercracker bristling at his back, even as his own engines revved with a growl. Medic or not--! 

If Ratchet was aware of his imminent deactivation-by-angry-Seekers, however, he didn’t show it. “Don’t you get it?” he demanded. “We’re not here to save the Giant from you. We’re here to save you from *him*!” He stabbed an accusing finger at the giant mech in question. “He’s not a wardrone. He’s not even Cybertronian. What he is, is hacked!” Ratchet spit out the word as if it were vile, the glyphs resonating with _/violation/_ and _/rape/_ , and at the same time pinged a file to every mech within range. It was unencrypted, unprotected, too simple to carry a viral packet; Skywarp reflexively opened it and jerked in surprise at the scans it held. This mech … had weapons folded in upon weapons, armor layered so ridiculously thick it was amazing that the big dumb drone could even move. The files were unrelenting in their detail; the giant mech looking down at them had enough armament to put a triplechanger to shame. If Ratchet was telling the truth ….

“His battle protocols have been severed from higher processes,” the medic snapped, pushing the point home. “Shoot at him, and you trip his defensive subroutines. Then we all die. I die, you die, your trine, Optimus, the sparklings … all of us! Is that what you want?”

All of the assembled Decepticons were battle-hardened warframes, veterans of an interstellar war that had destroyed worlds. Faced with this new threat, none of them retreated, though Skywarp could tell that more than a few of the smaller frontliners were tempted. Given the sheer size of this particular ticking time bomb, Skywarp couldn’t really blame them. Warframes or not, none of them had survived this long by being stupid. 

Starscream, predictably, showed no signs of backing down. He stepped forward, optics narrowed and wings flared in full threat display, his field rippling with frustration and rage as Ratchet refused to give way. “So now even the mighty Autobots have been reduced to using K-modifications on their pawns? I must admit, I never thought the high and mighty Optimus would ever soil his talons with such tactics.” Starscream’s words reverberated along flight-surfaces, sparking Skywarp’s own anger, while Thundercracker’s rage and fear for the hatchlings built up like a stormfront, pushing them all upward, forward, the trine flanking the Autobots and advancing as one. “Or was it that traitor of a tactician who convinced you to employ such methods?”

“I would never--!” Ratchet flared, only to be cut off by a slice of taloned fingers.

“Oh, don’t be so modest, Ratchet. Of course you did. And it is a wonderfully ruthless stratagem, I must admit,” Starscream said silkily, razored words biting deep. “Had such a specimen fallen into my talons, I might have been tempted to use it myself. It was a good plan, and it might even have worked. Perhaps not against Lord Megatron, but Seekers can hardly be expected to dig in and hold the line, now can we?” 

The hate behind those silken words was almost palpable. The tacnet was vibrating with readiness, battle-protocols queuing up across trinebonds, making Skywarp acutely aware of each shift and tiny movement his wingmates made. 

“No, your pawn might even have succeeded in pushing us from this place, at least for a time,” Starscream continued, his voice rising, taking on a familiar metallic edge. “It might have succeeded--” Those null rays came up, pointing straight at Optimus, wings flaring, as Starscream’s vocalizer changed into a raw-edged screech of defiance. “--If you had not threatened to destroy my work!”

“Starscream, we don’t want--” Skyfire tried to say, shifting as if to take a step forward--then freezing again as a dozen of the encircling mecha switched targets, cannon-barrels and guns trained on him instead. The assembled Decepticons were well-trained, experienced in their function; the smaller frontliners and helos concentrated their attention on Ratchet, leaving the larger Autobots to be targeted by the tankframes' and Seekers’ heavier armament.

“You sadistic, slag-spawned glitch!” Ratchet snarled, dentae bared and armor flaring in temper. The fragging medic looked mad enough to gnaw off Starscream’s leg, and near as Skywarp could tell, was completely oblivious to the amount of weaponry being pointed at him. “I would NEVER treat any mech as--as a disposable bomb! Just because you sparkless slaggers don’t care about your fellow mecha--”

Optimus tried to intervene. “Ratchet--”

“Like you pathetic Autobots cared about anything other than your own plating? We were beneath your notice until we became a threat--THEN you cared all right. Cared about protecting your own afts!” Thundercracker snarled, claws curling slowly, as if he could feel them tearing through the medic’s armor.

“All of you, please--this is not why we came.” The Prime’s voice rolled over the rising tension, as if Optimus could defuse the situation through his sheer presence. In another time and place, perhaps he might have been able to do just that--but his words bounced off of Starscream’s madness without effect. “We only wished to help. We never intended to--”

“Primus save us from your intentions,” Starscream snarled. “Your mewling words change nothing, Prime. Because of you, our world is a cinder, our species nothing more than outcast remnants on this disgusting mudball! Because of you, the Allspark is destroyed! Your *intentions* have done little more than doom the Autobots to slavery and eventual extinction, and I’ll be damned to the Pit before I allow your soft-sparked dithering to do the same to my creations!” He lifted one arm, pointing a null ray unerringly at Optimus’ helm, and Skywarp readied himself to move. Fractured their trine might be, but they were unified in this, at least. “This ends here, Prime!”

The tacnet hummed, scenarios and final checks flashing back and forth swifter than thought. The battle was so close Skywarp could taste it, the air sparking with the promise of violence. In another astrosecond Sunstorm and the others would be in position, and Starscream would fire. It was unlikely a single blast would take down the Prime, even at point blank range--the Rainmakers and Dirge’s Skykillers would attack from the air, keep Skyfire grounded, targeting the shuttlemech’s wings and keep him from shielding the others. Skywarp would teleport behind the Prime, which would give the tankframes a clear line of fire--

“MY mountain!” a small voice shouted triumphantly.

Skywarp’s single-minded focus scattered to the winds. He spun on a pede, an instant behind Thundercracker, zeroing in on the source of that shout. High above them all, a tiny hatchling clung to the top of the wardrone’s helm, flaring its wingnubs proudly. What the frag--? 

“Blitzwing!” Thundercracker bellowed. His wingmate looked fit to bust a gasket, and Starscream wasn’t far behind, though not out of any particular concern for his creation. Starscream never liked being upstaged. “How did--get down from there right NOW!”

The hatchling narrowed his little mismatched optics at them, simple faceplates folding into stubborn frown. “Mine! I here first!”

“Thundercracker, get it down from there or so help me …!” Starscream hissed. Used to Starscream’s idiosyncrasies when it came to hatchlings, Skywarp couldn’t help but notice the Autobots stiffen, trading sidelong looks. He kept a wary optic on them, but didn’t bother devoting any resources to figuring out what was bothering the Autoscum. He had more important things to worry about: like a hatchling that had *somehow* gotten away from its minder--Dropshot was going to be in a world of hurt once this was over--and two wingmates who were both about ready to tear someone’s wings off, albeit for entirely different reasons.

The big wardrone hadn’t moved to contest his new passenger’s claim. Those white optics shuttered briefly in a slow blink, but the mech otherwise held carefully still. His field was still dizzying and difficult to look at, but Skywarp thought the thing was amused rather than angry. Thank Primus for small favors, at least. Still, they needed to get the little glitch off of there fast, before the Autobots got any bright ideas. He reconfigured his targeting, preparing to teleport up above the drone’s helm and grab Blitzwing--

\--when he glanced over at the Prime and stopped short. He’d always known Autobots were pathetically soft-sparked, but Optimus’ faceplates, unshielded by his battlemask, and his field both reeked of … longing? Relief? It was hard to separate out all the layers of emotion as the Prime looked up at the hatchling, but even Skywarp couldn’t be blind to the implications.

 _//Starscream--//_ he sent urgently, pinging his wingmate insistently. _//Starscream, ‘Screamer, look!//_ The Prime might have come here chasing the wardrone, but now it was obvious what he really wanted. He wanted the hatchlings. 

With Starscream the only creator-mech on the planet--and likely the entire fragging galaxy--this meant they now had the ultimate leverage.

 _//Look at what?? This is no time for your stupidity, Skywarp!//_ Starscream snapped.

 _//Look at the Prime!//_ Skywarp sent the memory file of what he’d seen again, this time flagging it high-priority, to open as soon as it was received. _//LOOK.//_

 _//Skywarp, what are you--?//_ Thundercracker put in, most of his focus still on the wayward Blitzwing.

_//The Prime wants your hatchlings, Starscream! Look at him--*that’s* the real reason he came. Think about it! All we have to do is dangle Blitzwing or one of the others in front of those fraggers, and they’ll give us whatever we want!//_

_//Are you glitched? If we didn’t let the Fallen take our hatchlings, what makes you think we’re going to give them up to the Autobots?!//_ Thundercracker’s protective fury was unmistakable, only to be answered by Starscream’s angry indignation. 

_//*My* hatchlings, Thundercracker! These are my works, my expressions of flight and skill, and if you think I'm going to permit-//_

Ratchet drew a harsh invent, his wide optics locked on the round little hatchling who had so proudly staked his claim, interrupting the split-second flash of communication. "I have medium wavelength optical sensors. Antigrav nodes, pressure plates, torsion gears, six-gauge struts, preincubated wiring relays...." All minor parts, not used in adult mecha in any great quantity, but vital to a young hatchling's development.

 _//See?//_ Skywarp said triumphantly. _//Think of what else we could demand! Energon, repairs, other supplies ….//_ Charity, to Decepticons, was a suspicious, soft thing, full of hidden costs and not to be trusted. Leverage, on the other wing--*that* they understood.

 _//Deactivating them would also gain us a wealth of parts and energon,//_ Starscream snarled, but with significantly less venom. They all knew full well that the parts obtained after a battle tended to be damaged. It took a great deal of firepower to extinguish even a normal mech, much less a Prime. And the medic's willing assistance was an irreplaceable prize, especially if he could be... 'persuaded' to return with still more supplies. If all they needed to do was string the Autobots along for a vorn or two, from one empty promise to the next .... The Prime would figure out the game eventually, but by then they could secure their territory or find a better sanctuary someplace better hidden and easier to defend. The hatchlings would be stronger by then, as well... perhaps even enough to move offplanet. 

Thundercracker's optics narrowed. _//The medic can stay. He’s what we wanted anyway. But I don’t like having other Autobots so close to the hatchlings. What if they decide to just steal them?//_ Desperation could make a mech do the unthinkable; and it would be all too easy for the Autobots to rationalize such actions as ‘necessary’ or ‘noble’.

 _//We need hostages. The Prime might be a bucket-helmed fool, but I don’t trust that traitor tactician not to take advantage. Or the Wreckers, for that matter.//_ The debate had taken only a nanoklik, and Starscream turned his attention back to their standoff with the waiting Autobots. “And what do you want in return for this bounty, medic?” 

“I want your single-threaded airframes to stop shooting up our embassy, for one,” Ratchet shot back, tearing his optics from the stubby little shape of the clinging hatchling. “Other than that, all I want is to see these hatchlings healthy and thriving. And I want a chance to reattach that slagging wing before it rusts into its component parts.” He turned his attention to Thundercracker, scowling. “Bad enough you lost a wing; did you have to roll around in the dirt as well? Or did Skywarp just decide to drop you on your helm on the way in?” 

Starscream snorted. Typical medic. "A long list of demands," he hissed, as though Ratchet’s intentions were not very much aligned with the Decepticons’ needs. "IF we allow you these liberties, medic--we will require assurances beyond empty words."

“I nominate Skyfire as a hostage,” Skywarp suggested, blithely ignoring Thundercracker’s glare. He knew how badly Starscream wanted to peel the plating off of his former cohortmate, both verbally and otherwise. It seemed like a perfect solution: hostage and scapegoat all in one. Skywarp hadn’t survived this long as Starscream’s wingmate without learning how to redirect the former creator’s ire onto other targets.

“We cannot spare Skyfire, I’m afraid,” Optimus interjected smoothly. “We have too few fliers as it is, and Skyfire is badly needed to transport supplies, among other duties. But perhaps someone else--”

“I stay.” The deep, rumble of the big mech’s voice startled all of them; Skywarp had almost forgotten the thing was even capable of speech. Round optics looked down at the smaller mecha surrounding him, Blitzwing still clinging determinedly to his helm. It should have looked ridiculous, and it was--but it was also kind of intimidating. Not that Skywarp would ever admit that out loud. “Stay with Rat-chet.”

The trine exchanged glances. They had no stasis cuffs large enough to contain a creature such as this. And would a threat to the wardrone really keep the Autobots from whatever they were plotting? On the other servo, if Ratchet's data was accurate, then the Autos would not risk firing weapons near the drone. That afforded the whole base a measure of protection. 

Skywarp returned a _cautionary/negative_ as wariness crossed Starscream's field. _//That thing isn’t on a hairtrigger. I dropped a quarter-mechanoton of ordnance on it, and it didn’t go ballistic. The Autobots are pretty cautious around it, though.//_ Which made a certain kind of sense, really. The Autobots, who were mostly grounders, were at far greater risk from a k-modded drone. Decepticon airframes and Seekers, given a little warning, could gather the hatchlings and be on another fragging continent in a few kliks, leaving the drone to rampage through the enemy as it pleased.

The Prime also didn’t seem to like the idea much, which was another point in its favor. “Giant--I understand you wish to help,” he told the big mech, hands out in propitiation. “But putting yourself at such risk might not be the best way. What of Hogarth and his family? They are worried about you. They do not wish you to be hurt.”

The thing was already shaking its helm--slowly and carefully, in deference to his hatchling passenger, who squeaked his fierce delight at the new challenge. “This impor-tant.” He looked down at Thundercracker. “Parts stay together. I can be moun-tain, until other is found.”

 _//Other mountain? What the frag?//_ Skywarp asked, confused. There certainly weren’t any other mecha around big enough to qualify. Not unless that useless hulk Superion decided to drop in.

Starscream ignored the query, dismissing it with a slash of a taloned hand. _//I don’t know and I don’t care. That glitched wardrone can babble all it likes; all I care about is getting what we want.//_

“Well, since the Giant is willing to waste his time making sure everyone plays nice, that solves our problem,” Ratchet put in, his faceplates torn between worry and smug satisfaction. “I’m sure you slaggers can figure out the rest--*now* can I fix that Prime-bedamned wing?”


	15. Chapter 15

“Forty-five cubes of flightgrade every other orn.”

“Not possible. We can give you five cubes of flightgrade, and the same each in midgrade and medical grade for the hatchlings and the injured, however.”

"Unacceptable. The hatchlings alone require thirteen cubes every other orn."

"Thirteen." The glyph was spoken heavy with modifiers, making it simultaneously an inquiry, a statement of carefully polite disbelief, and an expression of astonishment.

Thundercracker bristled, careful not to shift the still-hot welds that crossed his frame. Ratchet's work was beyond expert, but there was no point in testing fate. "Twenty-six hatchlings, thirteen cubes. Possibly more if we are forced to cut their energon with medical grade." Lower grade energon, thick with metals, was sometimes better for developing frames, but most of the hatchlings wouldn't willingly drink enough of it. Thundercracker tilted his helm as Starscream's distinctive voice rose on a sharp screech of anger, answered by Ratchet's irate snap and a hatchling's distressed chitter. Thundercracker hoped his trinemate didn't deactivate the medic before he'd seen to all the hatchlings. Misfire, especially, had incorporated a number of substandard native parts that really should be removed and replaced.

"Twenty-six." The Prime repeated blankly, as if he were the one who'd recently been hit with a null ray. The hatchling exploring his lap found a gear at the Prime's knee joint that he particularly liked and began to tug at the part insistently, while his chosen guardian looked on apprehensively.

"You wouldn't want to stunt their development, correct?" A shameless play on the Autobot's sympathies, but it seemed to be working, to judge by the concessions he'd already won. And Starscream's clutch was an enormous one, frankly, even by pre-war standards. Primus only knew how long Thundercracker's glitched wingmate had been secreting away protometal cores on that Pit of a derelict mining station, hoarding them like blank canvases, fragile bulwarks against an ever-dimming future.

They weren’t stupid. Thundercracker and Skywarp had been trined with Starscream for millennia, knew the former creator-mech’s obsessions and idiosyncrasies as well as their own. They had prepared as well as they could, had taken parts and supplies enough to bring even several sparklings up to nearly full frames. But no one had been prepared -- who would have even thought to prepare? -- for so many. And this world, especially, with its overabundance of organic dirt instead of metal, was ill-suited for such young mechanisms. Adaptable as Cybertronians were, even hatchlings had their limits. 

“I--” Momentarily at a loss for words, Optimus soon recovered. “I’m afraid that is not possible. We simply do not yet have the ability to refine that much flightgrade.” Thundercracker watched the Prime glance down at the hatchling perched on his knee. “Still--the hatchlings have not yet received their first engine-mounts. Flightgrade, at this stage, is not strictly necessary; we may be able to provide twenty cubes each of mid- and medical grade, in addition to supplemental metals. We could also provide raw fuelstocks, to help make up the lack--”

“Fuelstocks? From the humans?” Thundercracker gave Optimus a scathing look. “Look around you. Do you honestly think we have any shortage of that organic-based swill?”

“A fair point,” Optimus conceded. “Still, at the moment, our supplies will not allow for larger shipments. I hope that this will change in the near future, as we bring more facilities online in partnership with the humans.” He tilted his helm minutely. “Perhaps if Starscream has initiated similar alliances of his own, we might work together …”

Thundercracker snorted, a chuffing vent that sent sandy dust pluming upwards. “Teach the squishies how to refine energon? You must be mad, Prime. Why would we do something that stupid? These vicious little organics would start making bombs faster than you can say ‘mass extinction’." Refined energon contained an enormous amount of energy, enough to make the humans' current ordnance look like a sparkling's popgun. Thundercracker shook his helm. "Include five cubes of flightgrade, and we will allow your medic to accompany each delivery, for more frequent check-ups. With the proviso that we renegotiate quantities in a tenth of a vorn." The hatchling had given up on the kneejoint, for the moment, and was attempting to squeeze himself under the Prime's shin plate, a maneuver which he was now just slightly too large to execute.

"I am more concerned about the nature and quantity of these supplements," a watching Astrotrain said. "This planet provides barely trace amounts of astatine, and no cybertronium at all. We need cesium and platinum at the very least, palladium, molybdenum … "

“We will send the same supplements used for our own forces,” Optimus assured him. “Though they will, of necessity, lack metals native to Cybertron.” For adult mecha, this was inconvenient, but not necessarily crippling, at least in the short term. For hatchlings, they would be essential, though they would not necessarily need more than Thundercracker could supply until they began experimenting with the greater flexibility demanded by t-cogs and altmodes.

Thundercracker watched the Prime glance down again at the hatchling currently clinging to the underside of one knee-joint. It had been, he belatedly realized, a stroke of genius to allow Spaceshot to clamber into the larger mech’s lap. 

Astrotrain scowled. “That’s not enough. You Autobots might be fine with just sitting around with your afts in the dirt, but hatchlings and fliers need more than a few tidbits of iron and titanium every now and then.” The bristling shuttlemech shifted forward, talons clenching--then froze as Thundercracker gave him a cold look, flaring his field deliberately in irritated warning. He wasn’t about to let Astrotrain’s temper undermine his authority and derail their negotiations. This might be the only chance they had to get the resources they needed; he wasn’t about to waste it.

“Astrotrain has a point,” he said carefully, capitalizing on the bigger mech’s looming presence, using it as a counterpoint to the hatchling’s innocent vulnerability. Such blatant sentimentality would never have worked with Lord Megatron. Optimus, however, was proving to be a softer target. “We have been short on supplements for some time. The repairs help, but in the long term, we will need more metals. If the Autobots can’t supply them, then …” He gave a artful shrug, flicking his wings upward to show his resolve. They were still Decepticons; if necessary, they would take what they needed, regardless of the consequences. 

“That is a concern, I agree,” the Prime said gravely. “And I would not wish to see any mech crippled or stunted due to their lack.” His hand had shifted slightly, Thundercracker noted, the blunted digits curving just a little, as if he wanted to cover Spaceshot’s little frame. “The humans, however, also require these metals in large quantities, and it is unlikely that Earth’s supply could meet both our needs for very long. Rather than demanding what they would likely be unwilling to give, I propose an alternative.” He glanced over at Astrotrain, and then beyond him, to where Ratchet and Starscream were still bickering. “This system is largely unexplored by the humans, who do not currently possess the technology to exploit the resources on other worlds. Beachcomber is a geologist, and we have other Autobots who are adept at ground-based explorations. Your forces contain shuttlemecha and airframes who could facilitate transport of materials and mecha. If we combine our resources, it is possible we could supply enough metals for both our needs and to trade with the humans as well.”

Thundercracker frowned. “We are not ground-grubbing miners, Prime. If you think--”

“I am not asking you to be a miner, Airlord. All I am suggesting is that your trine consider the possibility of a cooperative venture, in order to find the resources we both need.” Optimus slanted him a significant look. “I think we are both aware that your forces could make such explorations difficult, if not impossible, if you chose to do so. The reverse, however, is also true. Consider what we might accomplish together, if your mecha were willing to aid this undertaking. At the very least, it would lessen the necessity of relying upon the humans’ good will for our supplies.” Which was possibly the most potent argument in its favor, as far as Thundercracker was concerned.

"Me! I'm'a dig the things!" Spaceshot announced, trying to prise the Prime's kneeplate off his frame, hanging from the joint by his foreclaws, little back pedes kicking. 

The hatchling's guardian fumed and muttered to himself, even as Astrotrain sneered. “Permitting earth-worming *Autobots* to sully my cargo bay--” he cut off as Thundercracker gestured sharply, a decisive slicing motion. On the other side of the plateau, Skywarp looked up from where he still held the Autobot shuttle and the giant wardrone under guard. 

It wasn't an entirely useless proposal. They had forces enough to defend this little outpost, even while running a taxi and scout service -- barely. But they wouldn't have the troops to assemble an effective retaliatory strike force on a moment's notice, not against the Autobots. Entering into an alliance that one didn’t have the ability to betray was a chancy thing, among Decepticons. "I see no allure in splitting our forces -- not while you still hold prisoners," Thundercracker hedged.

Optimus paused, and Thundercracker watched him turn over this new demand. The most recent attack on the embassy had resulted in the loss of a large portion of the Decepticon groundframes on earth. Such large grounders were mecha well-suited to watching after and defending individual unflighted hatchlings. They were also mecha well-suited to devastating incursions against the humans, to occupying mining facilities and taking what they needed, hardened and deadly shocktroops every bit as experienced as Optimus’s own. They lay now, undoubtedly in stasis -- or under medical locks, where self-repair might otherwise bring them online -- beside the others who had fallen on this dusty, organic planet. “Repairs on the injured would proceed faster under Ratchet’s supervision,” Optimus noted.

Thundercracker ground a gear, a grating expression of irritation and disbelief. “You will forgive me, Puppet-Prime, if I do not care to see my mecha languish in your tender care.”

Optimus inclined his helm gravely, acknowledging the sins of the past, even as he laid them aside in favor of the future. “We will deliver your fallen with the first shipment of energon. As metals become available for their repair, we will further assist in machining the parts they require.”

Thundercracker leaned back, refraining from exchanging glances with Skywarp by an effort of will. The Prime’s ready capitulation gave him what he wanted, to be sure, but from the damage he’d seen the grounders take... those repairs would not be minor ones. The returned mecha would likely be useless for future incursions until the worst of that damage was repaired. Thundercracker’s tactical subroutines were not specialized for such long-term estimates, but even he could see that the chances of being able to seize their needed metals from the humans any time soon were minimal. Not without further reinforcements.

Still, they were Cybertronians. They could afford to take the long view. If this deal would regain some of the ground they had lost and give the hatchlings what they needed in the bargain, then Thundercracker saw no reason not to take advantage of the Autobots’ naivete. A temporary truce would give them badly needed room to maneuver--or to ‘dig in’, as the groundframes liked to say--and solidify their hold over their territory. 

On the verge of slipping from his unsteady grip on the Prime’s kneeplate, the hatching chirped in distress. Apparently unable to restrain himself despite the watching optics, the Prime reached down, giving Spaceshot a solid surface to kick against. The hatchling clambered back up, happily reclaiming his perch on the Prime’s kneeplate.

Thundercracker flicked his wings once, decisively. “Agreeable,” he said, packaging the proposed terms of the ceasefire into a single file. He pinged them over to Skywarp and Starscream for a quick review, and then to the Prime. No doubt the Prime and his tactician would want to wrangle over the details. Thundercracker settled himself in for a long negotiation. “Which sectors of the local asteroids have you already explored, and how soon can your miners be ready?”

***********  


Skyfire, under the watchful eyes of the surrounding Decepticons, had moved away from both the negotiations and the repairs-in-progress. Approaching the Giant, he tilted his helm upward. “Hello, Giant. And hello--Blitzwing, isn’t it?”

“I Blitzwing!” the hatchling proclaimed, then bared little denta at the shuttlemech, clinging possessively to his perch. He could look down on Skyfire, but not by much. Still, a quarter mechanometer was a quarter mechanometer, and this perch was clearly superior. “My mountain!” 

“I see that. I would not think of taking your mountain,” Skyfire assured him, faceplates shifting into a gentle smile.

The hatchling processed that for a nanoklik, conflicted. While it was well indeed that even the big one feared Blitzwing too much to take his mountain, the present state of affairs was a little disappointing. Where was the glory in holding a perch against all comers, if there were no challengers? Favoring his better optic, Blitzwing turned to scan for the other watchers and the brothers they carried.

“You are very brave to go so high,” Skyfire observed. “Are you going to be a Seeker?”

“Yes!” Blitzwing proclaimed fiercely. He drew himself up, flaring out wingnubs and flaps proudly, just like he’d seen Creator do. “Fly high, fast and far and best!” Just in case there was any doubt, he activated his antigrav nodes and launched himself from his perch, making a wobbly circle in the air before gliding downwards. The mountain lifted up a hand, and Blitzwing dropped onto the impromptu platform, talons latching on securely. “See?” He could fly even without wings!

“I do,” the big mech said admiringly. “Your Creator has done a fine job.” 

A scrabbling noise drew Blitzwing’s attention from his new admirer. A rusty-red helm popped up over the mountain’s other shoulder. “Me too,” Ruckus announced, pulling himself upward. “I fly also!” 

Blitzwing bared his denta, every plate of him bristled indignantly. “Go away. Mine!” Here was the challenger he’d expected--and Ruckus was already clambering up to take Blitzwing’s abandoned perch on the mountain’s helm! He sprang into action, tiny talons catching at almost invisible grooves and armor-seams as he scrambled up the big arm.

Ruckus, however, had not wasted his head start. Reaching the top first, he crouched, optics wide, obviously impressed with the height of his perch. “So high!” Leaning forward, he looked warily around for his brother--then leaned out over the Giant's forehelm, peering downward at white optics, each bigger than he was. “Oooo ...”

Blitzwing scrabbled his way to the top, and glared at his rival. “MY mountain!”

Ruckus straightened, foil-thin plating flared at the challenge. “Mine too!” 

Blitzwing clicked angrily. It didn’t matter if you climbed all the way to the top--you didn’t get to stay unless you were first! He pounced, dentae bared, and the two round little hatchlings devolved into a hissing tangle of tiny claws and wingnubs. Little pedes scrabbled at the smooth dome of their perch on the Giant’s helm as Skyfire watched in amusement. 

The Giant, however, seemed to be a bit less sanguine about the squabble. The enormous mech nudged a single finger -- as thick as Skyfire’s wrist -- toward the tangle of metal where the two hatchlings were attempting to pin one another flat atop his helm. “No fight-ing,” he said.

Skyfire chuckled, folded wings lifting slightly in amusement as he watched the larger mech try to intervene without dislodging his passengers entirely. “You’re not going to have much luck with that, my friend. Not with warsparked hatchlings.” It was probably a good thing that they weren’t yet developed enough for anything other than the most basic internal weaponry, though. Tiny claws clinked against one pede, and he looked down. Small red optics looked up, eyeing him consideringly. “Hello, little one,” Skyfire said, and crouched to lower one taloned hand. “Do you want to go up?” 

Starscream stalked up, abandoning his dispute with Ratchet, bristling in a much-larger imitation of Blitzwing. “Keep away from them, Autobot!” 

Even on one kneeplate, Skyfire was of a height with Starscream. “Not all mecha need to surmount obstacles on their own,” he said quietly, watching the third hatchling explore his fingers. It had only just escaped from Ratchet, to judge by the new parts shining among older ones. The tiny mech’s thin plating now lay properly across its body, like finely overlapping scales rather than a haphazard jumble. No doubt all the hatchling’s internal incorporations had likewise been optimized. Such extensive conformational corrections would be exhausting for any mech, let alone so young a hatchling. Still, the little mechling was alert enough to clamber into Skyfire’s palm, frowning fiercely in concentration as he coordinated his newly-lengthened limbs and strengthened tensors.

“Do not tell ME what they need,” Starscream snapped, talons flexing as if he were thinking of snatching the hatchling from Skyfire’s hand. Only the irritated rev of Ratchet’s engine behind them both seemed to hold him back. “Autobot coddling will not help it, any more than your facile sympathy and avowed pacifism-” he spat the word, as if it tasted foul- “-did anything to save those destroyed before the war!” 

Skyfire had been expecting the accusations. The wounds between them were not so ephemeral as to be healed with a few peaceful overtures; still, that did not mean they hurt any less to hear. “I know,” he admitted, looking down at the small life in his hand. “I could not--I did not believe any mech could ....” He searched for words, then gave up entirely. How did one defend the unthinkable? “I … was blinded by my function, Starscream. I did not want to believe. I did not want to go to war.” 

Even now, he hated it. The Autobots’ long search for the Allspark had been the closest he had come to true happiness in hundreds of vorn, giving him an excuse once more to fly free between the stars, spanning the galaxy to see what might be seen. But even that had been fraught with the dangers of war, with ambushes and betrayals. A thousand alien civilizations had grown up amidst the bones of the empire’s forgotten outposts; those few races old enough to know Cybertronians only feared them. In the end, it hadn’t mattered how far he’d flown -- the war had poisoned everything.

“You never did have the struts to do what needed to be done,” Starscream sneered. “And what did it gain you? That mechling-” he gestured to the hatchling now gravely comparing his tiny talons to one of Skyfire’s, “-isn’t even a quarter vorn old, and it will still be stronger than you ever were.”

Skyfire didn’t reply right away, disturbed by the fanaticism he heard in those words. He opened a tightly-banded channel to Ratchet. _//Ratchet. He’s … calling them ‘it’.//_ Cybertronian had hundreds of thousands of pronoun identifiers, but that particular glyph was simple and unadorned, meant only to refer to drones or other unsparked and interchangeable mechanisms. At a stretch, if one were feeling particularly rude, you could use it to describe an AI or a recalcitrant bit of Cybertronian fauna. But it was never, ever used for mecha, nor even for individual parts or systems of mecha.

_//I know. He called the hatchlings ‘it’ in front of me too. Judging from Thundercracker and Skywarp’s lack of reaction, he’s been doing it for a while. Even for adult mecha. Have you noticed he never uses the proper glyphs to refer to Acid Storm and the others?//_

_//I hadn’t,//_ Skyfire confessed, unsettled by this new information. _//Is this some kind of glitch? A damaged indentifier subroutine?//_ Smokescreen might be able to help, if it was--assuming Starscream could be persuaded to let the Autobot code specialist past his datawalls. Which was, Skyfire had to admit, about as likely as the planet suddenly reversing course.

 _//It might be a glitch. But I have a feeling that if it is, it’s a self-inflicted one.//_ Ratchet’s reply was somber, overlaid with _regret/understanding_. The medic was still working on another hatchling, most of his attention taken up by the squirming little mech. Still, he could spare enough attention to recognize Skyfire’s bafflement. _//Skyfire--Starscream is creating Decepticon hatchlings. Warframes. He can’t afford to care if they die.//_ He sent a wordless impression of _pain/determination/old experience_ : the regrets of a wartime medic who was sparked to repair, to fix new hurts and old damage, all while knowing that the mecha he repaired were destined to go back out to fight and die. It was a constant ache, in a way; the knowledge that sooner or later, despite their skill, he would lose. That death would come, and leave him with nothing but an empty shell where a friend used to be.

For a creator to face that as a Decepticon; to face the deaths of the sparks they had spun …. _//They can’t be mecha. Not to him,// Ratchet said softly. //They have to be … disposable. Tools, not people.//_

 _//But that’s...//_ the hatchling in Skyfire’s palm turned himself around in a circle, unused to maneuvering his new mass. He’d be a full handful to an average-sized mech -- Skyfire’s palm cupped him nicely. The hatchling plunked himself down on his stout little aft and looked up expectantly. _//Ratchet, that is madness.//_ For any mech, but trebly so for a creator.

He could feel the medic shrug. _//Maybe. But I wouldn’t want to be the mech who found that particular glitch repaired in the middle of a war. Think on that, before you start making plans to get him to Smokescreen.//_

 _//I wouldn’t--//_ Skyfire started--only to be interrupted when the hatchling in Ratchet’s grip squealed and managed to wriggle itself free, scrabbling straight up Ratchet’s arm. Forced to deal with both a recalcitrant hatchling and his bristling Decepticon guardian, Ratchet cut the commline off with a curse. Skyfire shuttered his optics. Some part of his processor had considered just that, hadn’t it? Had been thinking that if he could somehow lure Starscream out, get him looked at.... 

Starscream would never forgive him. 

Not that he could expect forgiveness anyway, really.

Starscream’s voice rose. “Nothing to say in your defense, Autobot?” He gave a sharp, metallic-edged click of derision. “It is ironic that only now, on the edge of extinction, do you bother to acknowledge your mistakes. Perhaps if you had learned them sooner, you might not have found yourself shuttling dust-pounders and supplies back and forth at the bidding of lowly grounders.”

Skyfire shook his helm once, slowly. “I am where I choose to be, Starscream. Just as I chose to come here, to bring the Prime and prevent the resparking of the war.”

“Yes, bend your wings before your precious Prime,” Starscream hissed. “The great Optimus, lackey of long-dead bureaucrats. You have chosen to serve a puppet who dances to the strings of any mech who cares to pull!” He jabbed a talon at the seated Prime. “See how he scrambles after consensus, even now? Let one lost Senator scuttle in from some forgotten corner of the galaxy, just one grasping and greedy pontiff, and you’ll see how quickly your sham of a Prime hands away the reins of power.”

It was a measure of Starscream’s madness that, just for a moment, the accusation almost made sense. “Sentinel is dead, Starscream,” Skyfire said evenly. 

“By Megatron’s hand,” Starscream snapped, optics pinned down in irritation. 

“And then Optimus defeated Megatron,” Skyfire pointed out.

“Pah. Megatron was damaged and weak--the others followed him only because they had not yet seen what he had become. *Skywarp* could have defeated him, given opportunity!” That pronouncement had the nearest Decepticons shifting subtly, a frisson of nervousness thrumming from field to field. Apparently not everyone subscribed to Starscream’s belief that the former Lord Protector was such an easy target.

The hatchling in his palm chirped impatiently, disgruntled by the delay. Skyfire shook his helm. "Regardless of what might have been, we are here now. I did not come to argue with you about factions and politics." He lifted his hand carefully, keeping it close to his chestplates as he climbed to his pedes. “I came because I wanted to see you. Even more, I wanted to see them. Your creations have always been extraordinary, Starscream.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “I must confess ... I have missed watching you work.”

The hatchling whistled in appreciation, peeping down at the ground from between Skyfire’s fingers. At this distance, Skyfire could feel the cycling charge and the abrupt changes in weight as the little one fired up his antigrav nodes. The sparkling didn’t have the energy or the coordination to hover -- he was probably fifty kilograms heavier now than when Ratchet had started -- but he came close. “Up!” the little mech demanded when he couldn’t achieve lift on his own. 

“And whose fault is that?” Starscream snarled. “It is, after all, your own smelted inaction that--” a reedy, indignant howl tore his attention away for a moment. The hatchling in Ratchet’s grip was apparently protesting the removal of the pebbles and sand the warspark had managed to cram into his tiny vents. 

Skyfire cycled his own systems quietly, wiggling a talon-tip in front of those wide little optics. The hatchling chittered in delight, lunging for it, trying to capture the tempting bit of metal. The round little frame was robust and active, despite his less-than-ideal organic environment. “They seem to be developing well,” he interjected. “Do you know what they intend to be?”

“Of course I do,” Starscream said snappishly. “They are all warsparks; most of them will be Seekers, though I may allow a few to be lesser airframes. Did you think I would create useless ground-grubbers? Or more oversized pacifists?” His optics focussed down on the hatchling currently clinging to--and gnawing on--Skyfire’s talon. “That one will probably be a triple-changer. I haven’t designed one in at least a kilovorn, and while the current ones are powerful, their energon consumption is far too inefficient. Their higher processing abilities are also not nearly adept enough for my taste. The Decepticons need warriors, not more slow-moving, slow-thinking thugs.” He considered the round little hatchling with a dissatisfied air, as if already planning what improvements would need to be made.

“I assume you have some specific ideas in mind?” Skyfire said, very carefully not smiling. He did, however, allow his field to reflect his interest and his admiration. “What about you, little one?” he said to the hatchling, attempting to distract it from its fruitless attempt to take possession of his talon-tip. “Are you going to be big and strong?”

Tiny optics blinked up at him. “Wildfly strong,” the sparkling announced. “Make big boom!” He gave Skyfire a miniature scowl, obviously trying on the expression for effect. Given the size of the faceplates in question, however, the result was less than intimidating.

Starscream tilted his helm at that pronouncement, secondary optics briefly shuttering. “They’ll be able to bring their internal weaponry online soon--perhaps in another quarter-vorn. After that, I’ll be able to progress on my new designs much more quickly. Assuming that for once in his misbegotten existence, your Prime actually manages to honor his promises.”

“Starscream...” The big shuttlemech paused. Optimus should have been the least of Starscream’s worries. Seekers were lightweight frames under the best of circumstances -- no matter what else had changed, Starscream hadn’t lost any of his pure physical grace. Indeed, he’d become if anything even more specialized, his armor thicker, his engines sculpted in designs Skyfire had never seen before but that spoke of sheer power all the same. His frame was more slender than Skyfire recalled, despite the armor and added weaponry, as if war had pared away everything beneath the surface, one sliver at a time. Or rather, as if Starscream had crafted himself for the demands of war, as surely as he did his sparklings.

But between the engines, the forbidding lines of weaponry, the exquisite sensor suites, and the rapidfire processors that controlled them all... a Seeker had very little space for onboard manipulating tools. Aeons ago, Starscream had done much of his work with a vast array of hand-held implements, rather than relying on inbuilt toolsets, an eccentricity that made him an extreme rarity among creators. In a way, it had been like painting blind, composing while deaf; a deliberate choice to rely upon intuition and instinct rather than precise sensory feedback. Much to the surprise of his critics, Starscream’s intuition had served him and his creations well. But now, with talons crafted to rend through armor plate, sensory arrays tuned towards offense and defense, to velocity and airspeed and spatial positioning rather than the fine, exacting work of crafting tiny new frames--was Starscream even capable of doing everything he claimed? Or was this another symptom of the warped creator-mech’s madness? 

Still, if they could make this alliance last, if Ratchet could give the hatchlings the expert care that Starscream no longer could, perhaps Starscream’s ambitions could yet be realized. And while some Autobots would no doubt object loudly to the idea of helping to raise the next generation of Decepticon fliers, Skyfire was not one of them. If being the cohortmate of a creator-mech had taught him anything, it was that mecha were not created with faction-sigils engraved on their sparks. Even warrior-sparked hatchlings would one day make their own decisions, carve out their own destinies. And if coddling Starscream’s ferocious little clutch helped to ensure that some Autobots might be seen as something other than enemies, then Skyfire would do just that. 

“A triplechanger,” he finally said thoughtfully. “They’re going to take more work than the lighter designs. How many are you thinking of framing?” In Skyfire’s palm, Wildfly appeared to be torn between slipping into recharge and keeping a watchful eye on his newly-claimed perch, clinging possessively to his talon-tip, optics flickering. “And how are you going to get around the power requirements for the t-cogs? I seem to remember that was always a problem, especially for flighted triplechangers.”

Starscream snorted. “Your ignorance is appalling.” Wings flicking downward, the Seeker settled in for a satisfying lecture. “The Autobots may have been satisfied with whatever half-clocked warframes they could find, but the Decepticons are hardly so incapable. Shockwave has made some new advances in energon conversion plants. That single-threaded drone had no idea of the true value of his discovery, of course, but it was obvious to *me* that if I--”

Starscream continued on, as Skyfire had known he would. And Skyfire listened, Wildfly dozing in one hand. Listened and asked questions and watched as an old enemy--and even older friend--made his plans for the future.

************

Beachcomber came online calmly, taking in system reports and self-repair pings as he did so. Apparently his frame was still missing a few vital components. Onlining his optics, he soon verified those damage reports; yes, it appeared he was still missing one arm and one leg-unit. Though given the sheer amount of crushing damage that had been done to his frame during the Ark’s final, uncontrolled spiral into that little organic moon, Beachcomber was inclined to consider two missing limbs a small price to pay for survival. Especially since it appeared that the rest of his damaged frame had been expertly mended. He stretched in pleasure, wiggling the digits of his remaining hand, noting the signatures on internal code-patches--Ratchet and Smokescreen had both been working on him? Given that those two could pull a mech back from the Pit itself if they really put their minds to it, he was a lucky bot indeed. Then, belatedly registering proximity reports that told him he wasn’t alone, Beachcomber turned his helm. 

“Que?” The young mech’s faceplates were entirely different, as was his coloration, but that field was unmistakable--as was the way Que was hunched over, completely focussed on the half-assembled device in front of him.

“Beachcomber? You’re up!” Leaving the device behind--which did not appear to be active, Beachcomber noted with relief--Que headed over to where the geologist lay. “Smokescreen said that you’d probably come online once we removed the blocks, but that it was best if we let you do it when you were ready. How do you feel?”

“ ...truncated,” Beachcomber said wryly, happy to see that Que had lost none of his enthusiasm in the intervening vorn. “But surprisingly good, for all of that. Help me up?”

“Of course!” Shifting over to Beachcomber’s armless left side, Que boosted him upright, steadying him with one shoulder as Beachcomber adjusted his balance to accommodate his half-repaired state. “Ratchet should be here soon--he’s heading back from Iran right now with Skyfire and the Giant. About time, too--Skyfire has already made one delivery of the prisoners and a whole load of energon. We wanted to get your new arm and leg done before bringing you online, but considering the deal Optimus struck with the Decepticons, we couldn’t afford to wait. You’re our only geologist, after all!”

Beachcomber stilled, trying to parse that information and failing. “Don’t worry, Que, I’ll be fine. Optimus--struck a deal? With Decepticons? To trade a geologist?” He didn’t like the sound of that. He drew a cooling ventilation, and found the air absolutely rife with tiny creatures -- bacteria, spores, a thousand different organic species. His meticulously-cleaned traps and filters kept them from his more delicate parts, of course, but... what the... how in the world had these tiny round patterns gotten all over his internals? There were... exactly ten different kinds of them, two types slightly larger than the others -- strange printed, textured dots drawn in oil and salt. They tickled a bit, and some seemed to be a little smeared. How very odd. “Why? And a giant what?” 

“Yup!” Que grinned broadly, patting Beachcomber’s single intact shoulder as he shuffled around to dig through a cube of assorted bolts. “And it’s just ‘Giant’--that’s what we’ve been calling him. It’s most certainly a designation he deserves, though. We found him here on Earth; I expect you’ll be most impressed. We’ll have you up in no time to see him! I can’t tell you how glad Ratchet will be to get his hands on some palladium. And there just never seems to be enough scandium! And of course the Giant needs all the metal we can give him. This is going to be great, I can work on my--”

He... was being traded for metals? Beachcomber reset his optics. Unless Optimus had changed beyond all recognition, that seemed extraordinarily unlikely. “The Giant is a mech, then?” he prompted gently. Que’s enthusiasm often had him omitting pertinent details, his processors churning away on a hundred different projects and fleeting obsessions at once. Most mechlings tended to be single-threaded when it came to the pursuit of one interest or another, but Que took it to extremes. Which was only to be expected, given his spark-progenitor. 

“--and there was--the Giant? Oh! Yes, he’s a mech. Not Cybertronian, though. We’re not sure what world he’s from; he crash-landed here a little before you guys did. He’s very easy-going, though, for all his size. Which is a good thing, given that--here, I’ll send you the scans and you can see for yourself.” Que obligingly pinged over everything the Autobots had on the other mech without being asked. Quite frankly, Beachcomber wasn’t sure he needed quite *that* much information--apparently Ratchet and Wheeljack’s scans had been very comprehensive. Even Smokescreen’s annotations showed up here and there, though they were not nearly as detailed. Still, he accepted the packet, processing it reflexively. 

“A metallivore?” he said in mild surprise. That was unusual. Metallivores were rarely sapient. Absorbing Ratchet’s behavioral notes, he added, “A grazer, I see.” Which was a bit of a relief. While Beachcomber embraced all life, whether born within the Allspark or otherwise, welcoming a predatory metallivore this size into their ranks would have made life interesting, to say the least.

“Yup,” Que said cheerfully. “He’s not too picky--he’ll chow down on any metal we give him. Nothing living though. Good thing! I’m not sure where we’d find enough, unless we fed him a Decepticon or three.” Which rather forcibly reminded Beachcomber that there had been a reason Wheeljack had let his offspring head out with the Wreckers. Insatiably curious, often destructively so, Que had never known an existence without war. It had definitely shaped him--for all his cheerfulness, Que was ruthless in ways that Wheeljack would never be. 

“He sounds like a fascinating person,” Beachcomber remarked. “You said he will be arriving with Ratchet? I can’t wait to … meet--” he stopped short, frowning. He had reflexively opened up the structural and metallurgical portions of the Giant’s files; mostly out of professional curiosity. But what he found there gave him pause.

“Que …” He double-checked the data, unsure how the others could have missed it. “You said … the Giant isn’t from this planet?”

“That’s right,” Que confirmed, as he held up a bolt to the light, a bit puzzled at the question. “We’re not sure what world he’s from originally--all of his pre-Earth memory nodes are locked down. Smokey thinks he might be able to try and help the Giant recover some of them eventually, but … “ he trailed off, transmitting a sheepish glyph of _scarcity/burden/triage_ to excuse their only code specialist’s lack of attention to the matter. “Why? Did you find something?”

“Que, if these scans are correct,” Beachcomber said slowly, “the Giant’s spark-chamber is composed of a cybertronium alloy.”

“Well, yeah.” Que rubbed the back of his helm with one hand--an odd mannerism Beachcomber had never seen before, but one that seemed to denote confusion. “You sure you’re feeling okay? All spark-chambers are made out of cybertronium.”

“Que. Cybertronium is a unique metal, born of the body of Primus Himself,” Beachcomber explained patiently. “As far as I know, there are no other major deposits in this galaxy. Which means that barring a complete spark-chamber replacement--which is vanishingly unlikely--the only way a mech can have a spark embodied within a cybertronium chamber …”

Que finished Beachcomber’s thought for him, vibrating with shock and excited realization. “--is if the Giant was created on Cybertron! But -- but there’s nothing like him in any of the records I have on Cybertronian megafauna, Beachcomber!” 

The geologist shrugged, the movement feeling strangely unbalanced without a full complement of plating to ripple. “Nor in mine. But cyberbiology was never my specialization, and so many records have been lost … Cybertron is an ancient planet.” He tilted his visored helm, watching Que with affectionate understanding. “Primus has many great mysteries. Perhaps this ‘Giant’ is another one of them?”

Que gaped. “That’s--” The young mech jittered, nearly dumping the cube of tiny bolts onto the floorplates. “That’s -- oh, this is, I gotta go tell -- Beachcomber, I’m going to be *right* back so don’t--” The hatch hissed open, revealing a wide hallway with rather interesting stone walls and two... Beachcomber wasn’t sure what they were. They were organic, though, and hatchling-sized. The two elongated little bipeds stood frozen in the corridor, and shuttered their tiny optics back at him, eerily like mecha caught by surprise. They craned their spindly necks and watched as Que stumbled over his own pedes, caught his balance, and raced off down the hall. “Don’t go anywhere!” Que called back.

Beachcomber looked down at his one leg, then back at the tiny organics. One of them gave him an odd little gesture -- mobile mouthparts quirked to one side, shoulders hunched, palms raised. Then the hatch slid shut. 

Well. That was unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much gratitude and credit goes to Playswithworms, whose stories about hatchlings are both endearing and addictive, and have directly inspired our own! :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Giant shook his helm. “Home … gone,” he said, the vast spread of his field shifting into muddied grays and reds, desaturated and indistinct, but turbulent. The big mech spread blunt fingers in the air, closing them slowly, as if trying to catch something intangible. “Too far ... I--remem-ber mountain. Remem-ber gray.” He extended his arm, comparing it against to Seaspray’s vivid white, blue, and gold plating. “No co-lors. Only hurting. Only gray.”

Beachcomber’s announcement had turned the entire embassy into a buzzing hive of rumor and speculation, open channels humming with debates over the Giant’s origins. The Autobots’ scientific contingent, especially, had latched on to the news like a sharkticon on a leaking carcass: Perceptor and Wheeljack were practically vibrating with excitement as they debated the ramifications of Beachcomber’s discovery.

“This is incredible!” Perceptor announced as he reviewed the data, giddy with delight.

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘impossible’, Perce,” Seaspray retorted. “You know as well as I do that there’s absolutely no record of any other sentient species ever evolving on Cybertron. Are you sure he isn’t just a normal Cybertronian? A very old one, perhaps? A forcible reformat would explain a great deal, given the damage done to his coding--”

“That doesn’t explain the fact that he consumes metal,” Wheeljack pointed out. “Even Insecticons don’t subsist exclusively on foraging--they still need a certain amount of energon to survive. But the Giant is almost exclusively metallivorous.”

For, as the Autobots had discovered over the last few months, it seemed that the Giant had about as much interest in energon as a frontliner on double rations did in rust sticks: very little. Early in the Giant’s stay, they had offered him some. He had taken a proffered cube willingly enough, pinching it carefully between two huge fingers. He’d studied the energon, field rippling with chaotic color, as Wheeljack had demonstrated how to peel back the force barrier on a cube. The short activation code was simple enough that a hatchling of a few cycles could handle it; it did not take long for the Giant to open it. He then promptly stuck his fingers into the cube. The resulting splash of fuel had necessitated hazmat showers and lung function checks for nearby humans, and largely spelled the end of their experiments with the Giant’s dietary preferences.

For the most part. The incident had given rise to any number of hypotheses worth testing, in Perceptor’s estimation. At the moment, however, they had far more fascinating avenues to explore.

“No, he’s definitely a different species,” Wheeljack continued, checking over Skyfire’s underchassis for damage from repeated orbital reentries. “There are just too many differences. His t-cog--if that’s even what it is--is completely different from anything I’ve ever seen. Power processing, energy conversion, and even basic structural components are fundamentally different from those of a normal Cybertronian mech, Decepticon or Autobot. He’s not even close enough to be considered an offshoot like the Junkions and Insecticons. And I’ve never seen any mech that was able to reassemble individual pieces and repair himself like he does.” He glanced at Ratchet for confirmation.

“Wheeljack is right,” Rachet said, his field still flaring with _annoyance/intrigue_. “Structurally, the Giant is about as dissimilar from us as we are from, say, the Quintessons. Minus the technorganic aspects, of course.” The discussion had already been well underway in the main entry cavern by the time he had returned, and Ratchet-- along with Optimus, Jazz and a few other senior officers--had joined in to discuss the implications of Beachcomber’s find. Despite their own curiosity, Sam, Mikaela and the other resident humans had bowed out after the initial rush of the discovery had faded, unable to follow the rapid-fire exchange of words and comms. As Sam had put it--“you can give us the Cliff’s Notes version later, guys.”

The Giant had also been invited, of course. Newly returned from Iran in the company of Ratchet and Skyfire, he had calmly plunked himself down at the cavern entrance to watch the ongoing debate. Given how little they’d managed to decipher of the big mech’s alien color-language thus far, however, it was impossible to tell what he thought about it.

Ratchet, on the other hand, was more than a little disgruntled about overlooking something so obvious and not inclined to hide it. “Given that the Giant incorporates part of the metals he consumes into his frame, there is the possibility that he might have just visited Cybertron at some point. However, critical components like spark chambers generally do not change composition unless they have been severely damaged. I also can’t imagine why his frame would fundamentally alter the structure of his spark-chamber to include cybertronium, but leave the rest of his frame composed of more common metals.”

“Me-tal?” the Giant asked solicitously, offering Ratchet a rust stick from a crate that had escaped the exodus to Iran. The big mech, fascinated by the medic’s unusual new appetites, had apparently taken his self-appointed task as Ratchet’s guardian to heart. Which was a little annoying--Ratchet was a veteran medic, slaggit, not a hatchling in need of a nannybot. But … twenty-six poorly maintained hatchlings meant twenty-six applications of tailored nanites, plus innumerable little pieces for refurbishing. It wasn’t beyond the abilities of a single medic, especially when spread over half an orn, but it had been draining.

He probably shouldn’t have been so generous; the Autobots had wounded of their own, as Ratchet knew all too well. But those little optics....

Muttering, Ratchet swiped the flaky little stick of metal from those big, blunt fingertips. Unperturbed, the Giant rummaged around for some more rust fragments -- chunks too large for Ratchet’s jaws -- and popped them into his own cavernous buccal unit, optics half-shuttering with a very human expression of enjoyment.

“Yanno, I don’t think anyone’s ever accounted for all th’ lesser colonies -- not past markin’ them off as destroyed, anyway,” Jazz pointed out. He and Prowl had their helms together, coordinating with Red Alert and going over every astrosecond of Optimus’s dealings with the Decepticons. It would take some time to come to any conclusions, however, and Jazz had a thread or two to spare for Yucca Mountain’s biggest mystery. “Could he have been built an’ sparked on one of ‘em, with materials brought from Cybertron?"

“I don’t think that timeline adds up, though. Ratchet said the Giant was pretty old.” Seaspray slanted a look up at the big mech, reaching up to pat a bent knee.

"He's not old," Ratchet grumped. "*Kup* is old. The Giant is fragging ancient. I might not be able to tell when he was sparked, but he definitely predates any colonies I've ever heard about."

"Giant..." Seaspray craned his helm back, peering up at those bright white optics. "You don't remember anything at all about home? Where you come from, or how long ago?"

The Giant considered the question gravely for a moment, blunt fingertips lifting up to rub at a small spot on the top of his helm. The gesture appeared to be more habitual than any expression of real pain, from what Ratchet could tell. At the very least, he had found only minor damage around the area; certainly nothing significant enough to cause the big mech’s amnesia.

The Giant shook his helm. “Home … gone,” he said, the vast spread of his field shifting into muddied grays and reds, desaturated and indistinct, but turbulent. The big mech spread blunt fingers in the air, closing them slowly, as if trying to catch something intangible. “Too far ... I--remem-ber mountain. Remem-ber gray.” He extended his arm, comparing it against to Seaspray’s vivid white, blue, and gold plating. “No co-lors. Only hurting. Only gray.”

“It’s all right, Giant,” Smokescreen said soothingly, moving to lightly touch the larger mech’s arm. He had begun to adopt some of his patient’s color-language, Ratchet noticed, his field suffused with warming blues and golds, radiating _reassurance/calm_. “You don’t have to remember right now. Not if it hurts.”

The Giant’s field settled slightly, but grew no calmer, the colors in it still muddy and indistinct.

“Indubitably,” Perceptor agreed, taking up the thread of the debate. “In any case, the Giant’s lack of memory does not absolve us of the necessity of considering the data before us. Beachcomber’s discovery is a reminder of how assumptions may blind us to facts; we must fit our hypotheses to the data, rather than falling into the error of doing the reverse.” The scientist leaned forward, his field flaring with excitement at the prospect of hunting down a new line of inquiry. “Consider what we have already learned. We know that our friend’s transformation capabilities are either limited or nonexistent. His language is completely dissimilar to Cybertronian, with very few points of congruence. His structure, internals, and composition are only superficially similar to our own, with as many differences as similarities, and his self-repair functions are far more advanced. He is an obligate metallivore, but only of nonliving metals-”

“-for which we are all very grateful-” Wheeljack put in wryly.

“-which would indicate that whatever his planet of origin, it had an abundance of metal for his species to consume. His age is, at this time, impossible to determine, although Ratchet believes he predates at least the first Golden Age. And then there is the matter of the cybertronium.” Perceptor looked around at his fellow scientists. “These datapoints may appear to be contradictory, yet each has been verified or is the only logical possibility; we cannot discount any of them. There are other metal-based planets in the galaxy, though they are relatively rare. But there is only one--that we know of--that contains sufficient quantities of cybertronium to build a spark chamber that size.”

“So him bein’ from a colony might not be impossible, but it’s pretty damn improbable,” Jazz summarized. “Blaster, m’ mech--your crew got any records of anythin’ like this?”

Their communications head shook his helm. “I’ve never heard of anything like this guy, that’s for sure. But then, that kind of stuff was never my specialty.” He looked down at the symbionts clustered around him. Flipsides was at his pedes, flanked by Ramhorn and Steeljaw, while Eject and Rewind had perched on some nearby equipment for a better vantage point, both following the discussion with bright-opticked interest.

Eject scrunched his miniature faceplates, swinging his blue heels against the crate beneath him. "Wish I had a slam dunk for ya, boss. History just isn’t my gig, I’m afraid.”

Rewind gave the matter more thought, scratching his little helm. He picked up bits and pieces of information from everywhere. It was unusual; symbionts, once called the memory-keepers of Cybertron, took their function very seriously. They tended to focus on their chosen disciplines, learning and trading for as many datafiles on those specialties as possible. Most symbionts with a mishmash of archived datafiles would have felt intolerably ungrounded, or have had a difficult time parsing their recorded knowledge. Rewind, however, positively delighted in breadth over depth. It was an unusual talent, and one that often gave his cohort exactly the clue they needed.

But not this time. “I’ve got some third-hand stuff even from the early Golden Ages, sure, but... I can’t recall so much as a... a tablet or engraving with something like the big guy, here.” He looked up, shoulders slumped. “Sorry.”

“It o-kay,” rumbled the Giant, reassuring the tiny mech.

The two quadrupedal symbionts exchanged glances. “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,” noted Ramhorn gruffly.

Steeljaw nodded slowly, dipping his heavily-maned helm, sensory blades rippling in thought as he considered the question. “This is true,” he agreed. “None of us have the age or standing to possess memories that old, or that specialized. Even before the war, there weren’t many symbionts old enough to have that kind of knowledge. Now...” He shook his helm, blades rattling. Cybertron’s chroniclers had been perhaps the first and most thoroughly decimated of frametypes. Decepticon propaganda had been a machine all its own, a devouring force that tolerated but one version of history: all courtesy of a single mech.

Tucked between the two larger symbionts, Flipsides studied his pedes. But Blaster must have picked up something, because his inquiring look turned into concern. “Flipsides?”

The little mechkin’s field was rippling subtly with _distress/uncertainty_ , Ratchet belatedly realized, the fine plates of his armor clamped protectively tight. He shifted further back into Blaster’s shadow as Wheeljack, Perceptor, and the others turned their attention to him. “I--I don’t have any memories that would help, Master,” he whispered, his vocalizer vibrating with tension. “But … I think I know who would.”

Blaster crouched, instinctively sheltering the distressed mechkin, one hand reaching out to cup Flipsides’s shoulders. “Who?”

Flipsides looked up, to where the Giant’s glowing white optics looked on, gauging the flickers of that chaotic field, spark-felt sympathy and worry both on his little faceplates. He looked back to Blaster. “You … you won’t like it.”

“It’s okay, little mech … ya know I got your back, right? Tell us whatever ya want. We won’t get mad.”

Flipsides tilted his helm, searching his master’s faceplates and his field, as if making sure that reassurance was real. Moving subtly into Blaster’s hand, fingers curled around the carrier’s larger ones, he looked apprehensively out at the rest of the gathered Autobots.

“Ravage,” he confessed, and a ripple of _shock/disbelief_ spread throughout the cavern, echoing from one field to the next. “If anyone knows, he would.”

Ratchet had not been expecting that particular revelation, he had to admit. And from the looks of it, the others were in the same shuttlecraft. Jazz and Prowl, in particular, appeared to have been caught flat-footed, which was more than a little amusing.

“Ravage?” Jazz echoed, confused. “That cat may have a talent for sneakin’ inta places and causin’ trouble, but why would he know anythin’ more ‘n we do about the big guy?”

“Because … Ravage is one ancient ‘con,” Blaster said slowly, obviously coming to some kind of realization. “Man, how come I didn’t think of that before? ‘Sides is right. If ya wanna know anything about ancient Cybertron, then Ravage probably has the answers.”

Old anger sparked at the fringes of his field, quickly hidden away before the emotion could disturb his symbionts.

“Wait, wait--what?” Ratchet leaned forward, frowning. “What do you mean, ancient?” And why hadn’t Blaster ever mentioned this before? Fragging chroniclers and their secrets …. Although he probably shouldn’t be surprised. Blaster was an amiable enough mech, but chroniclers had always been an insular frameclass. At least Ratchet knew enough as a medic about carrier protocols to understand why, no matter how much Blaster despised Soundwave, he’d never, ever take a kill shot at the Decepticon’s little mob of thugs and spies. Disable, sure, even cripple--but never kill.

But in the beginning, other mecha hadn’t been so understanding. It had caused more than a little trouble for Blaster when they’d first joined up; many Autobots had doubted both the little cohort’s courage and their loyalty. But Blaster’s unwillingness to target symbionts most emphatically did *not* extend to their master. In the end, his ferocious battles with Soundwave, combined with his symbionts’ ability to bring back intel from almost anywhere, had been enough to prove their worth. The rest of the Autobots eventually just accepted Blaster’s ‘soft spot’ as one more eccentricity in their ranks, like Smokescreen’s penchant for gambling or Bluestreak’s conversational rambling.

Blaster glanced down at the three symbionts in front of them, his hands moving to cup protectively around them. Then he lifted his helm, meeting Ratchet and Prowl’s optics--and behind him, Optimus’ patient blue gaze. “It ain’t exactly hush-hush,” he told them all. “Or at least … it wasn’t. Not before the war. Ravage is probably the eldest memory-keeper still functioning. He was sparked before the First Golden Age, I know that for sure. That cat was beyond ancient even before the war.” He straightened a little, focussing on Optimus. “We all carry the First Memory, o‘course: the Allspark and the beginning of things, and the coming of the Primes. But Ravage … they say that Ravage was there for it.”

“Blaster--why did you not tell us this before?” Optimus asked, taken aback by this revelation.

“‘Cause it wouldn’t have made a difference,” Blaster said, quiet and resigned. “I’m an Autobot, Optimus. Ravage belongs to Soundwave. That makes him the enemy. I had to protect my mob, and as many other Autobots as I could. We couldn’t afford to do anything but treat Ravage as the threat he was.”

“The threat he is. Despite the truce, that remains a valid concern,” Prowl pointed out, giving the discussion his full attention at the mention of Soundwave.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, big guy,” Blaster told the Giant. “Even if we asked, I seriously doubt that Soundwave'd allow Ravage to share any kind of information." The carrier's mouthparts tightened. "And there’s no way Soundwave’s gonna let Ravage get anywhere near Earth. Not alone. Not after what happened in Egypt.” He very carefully didn’t look at Bumblebee, but Ratchet could feel the ripple of unease through the symbionts clustered around the big carrier. Blaster … had been very subtly keeping his cohort at a distance from the cheery yellow infiltrator. Not actively shunning him, no, but subtly and consistently never quite allowing Bumblebee within grabbing range of his mob. Ratchet had wondered about that a little, but never really had the time or the energy to pursue it. But now Blaster’s avoidance was starting to make sense.

“I could petition Megatron to allow Soundwave to visit Earth,” Optimus said slowly. “But I do not think he would allow it.”

“No no no no--we do NOT want Soundwave back on Earth,” Jazz said firmly, slicing a black and silver hand through the air for emphasis. “Optimus, I know you’re wired to want ta do the right thing, but that idea is so phenomenally bad I don’t even know where ta start. Bad enough we got Screamer here to deal with. Screamer and Soundwave? You might as well just kickstart the war all over again, ‘cause that’s what’s gonna happen once Soundwave reports back about our little band of AWOL Decepticons. And that’s not even takin’ inta account what that fragger could do to Sky Spy or Teletraan, given half a chance. ”

“I concur,” Prowl said firmly. “Soundwave has disrupted native networks on eighty-three percent of the alien worlds on which he has fought. Based on these data points, and the current level of security of the humans’ satellite network, he is capable of bringing planetside communication to its knees in under seven orn, if allowed to work unopposed. In addition, sixty-seven percent of the mecha who engaged him in personal combat have been hacked, frequently requiring extensive code repairs.” Smokescreen nodded in confirmation at that. “Three-point-two percent of those suffered critical injuries during the encounter, a kill-rate comparable with Megatron’s. Optimus, we cannot put the humans and their planet in danger, as well as ourselves, merely to aid one mech.”

Jazz took in Optimus’ unhappy frown, and added, “Like m’ mech Blaster says, he prolly wouldn’t come anyway. Even if Megs let him go, Earth hasn’t been a real lucky place for him. Not unless there’s something here he wants. He even seems ta have quit tryin’ ta hunt down Blaster, so there just isn’t anything here that’d interest a... a mech like that.” Jazz nodded in apology.

Optimus drew a slow ventilation. “Your suggestion is a good one, Flipsides,” he said, looking down at the mechkin. “However, Jazz and Prowl are right. I’m afraid that the risks that come with inviting Soundwave to Earth are just too high.” He looked up to the Giant. “This does not mean we will give up. Our scientists are very talented, and very determined.” He gave Perceptor, Wheeljack and the others an approving nod. “I am certain they will find the answers to this mystery, given time. It just may take longer than one would wish.”

“I wait,” the Giant said, looking down at Flipsides’ slumped frame, the bass rumble of the words gentled in deference to the smaller mecha about him. “Ho-garth, many other friends, are all here. Earth is good place.”

“But not home,” Flipsides whispered, his field full of _guilt/longing/sorrow_. He turned into Blaster’s embrace for comfort, gripping the cradling fingers tight.

“No. Not home,” the Giant agreed, gently, slowly. “But still... good place.”

 

 

***********

 

 

The night was clear and cold. Even in summer, no matter how hot it was during the day, the desert was always cold--not that the Giant ever seemed to notice. Instead he stood, watching the silver disk of the moon rise higher in the western sky.

“Hey Giant,” Hogarth called out softly. “Mind if we join you?” Snugly ensconced in sweaters--the chill was not so easily ignored by elderly bones, unfortunately--he and Anjali both picked their way towards the big mech, flashlights in hand. Not that they really needed them; tonight the moon was bright and full, casting sharp-edged, silvered shadows over the desert.

“Ho-garth, Anja-li,” the Giant said in greeting, his face shifting into a smile as he half-turned. He crouched, extending one hand. “Go up?”

Playing jungle gym for a bunch of baby robots--and what wouldn’t Hogarth have given to have seen that in person!--apparently had only reinforced the Giant’s willingness to pick up and carry around anyone smaller than himself, humans and Autobots included. “Best big brother ever,” Hogarth said, smiling up at his friend, but shook his head. “I think we’ll stay on the ground tonight, buddy. If you don’t mind?”

Unfolding a blanket, Anjali laid it out on a nearby flat patch with a good view of the desert below. She tugged her husband downward as she sat, curling her feet underneath her with the ease of long practice, and beckoned to the Giant as well. “Sit with us?”

Hogarth had the sneaking suspicion that, in a way, the Giant considered them all babies--or the Giant-version of hatchlings, perhaps. Which made him wonder what kind of infant the Giant might once have been, might once have cradled. Probably not as small and ferocious as Cybertronian hatchlings, or as helpless as human babies--perhaps more like elephant babies? In his mind’s eye, Hogarth could almost see them: round-bodied and long-limbed, tumbling and playing around the feet of their elders.

He had often wondered if the Giant’s people were still out there in space somewhere. He’d hoped more than once, during those long years of waiting, that they might someday come to Earth. Not to conquer or destroy, but to find their lost companion. To do what Hogarth couldn’t and help the Giant. Maybe even ... to take him home.

Now, as the Giant rumbled “O-kay,” and folded himself down to sit carefully alongside them, Hogarth wondered if the Giant would even want to go. By human standards, all of the Autobots were incredibly old; the youngest ones were at least twenty thousand years old, if not more, and the oldest … well, Hogarth had decided to stop counting once he found himself using scientific notation to keep track of the numbers. And the Giant was even older--unimaginably so. If Ratchet was right, he might very well be older than the Earth itself. Planets changed, just like everything else in the universe. Even if they found the Giant’s original planet … would it even still be home? Still a place he would want to stay?

Hogarth leaned back against the side of the Giant’s warm hand, drawing an arm around Anjali, holding her close against the chill. She tilted her head back against his chest, watching the stars as well. They seemed too bright, too sharp, like chips of diamonds in the clear, cold skies. “I heard that the Autobots think you come from the same place they do, Giant,” Anjali said gently, tracing the line of the huge mech’s gaze.

“Yes,” the Giant replied. “Cy-ber-tron.”

“What do you think?” she asked, smoothing a palm over the warm metal.

The Giant gave it some thought. “Do not know. Home …” he paused, obviously grasping for some English equivalent. “Names diff-erent. Not the same. Cy-ber-tron--word … has no co-lors.”

Which made sense, Hogarth had to admit. When you got down to it, they were working with a translation of a translation of a word for a planet that the Giant could barely remember. Who knew what the Giant’s color-name for his planet had originally been? Much less whether it referred to the same place as the Cybertronian homeworld?

“I understand,” Anjali said. She laid her head against Hogarth’s shoulder, and he held his wife a little closer. “I can’t imagine not being able to remember my family or where I came from,” she added quietly. “Even if you never go back, it would still hurt.”

The Giant gave a low rumble, though Hughes couldn’t tell if it was from agreement or unease. “Home ... and co-lors, gone,” he said slowly, gravely. “I looked for moun-tain-- found Hogarth. Found co-lors.” That gray helm tilted up to the sky again, looking past the moon. “Maybe … will find home too. But moun-tain more im-portant.” He looked back down at Hogarth and Anjali. “Friends, more im-portant.”

Hogarth reached up to wrap an arm around one giant finger, feeling his back creaking as he moved. “We think you’re pretty danged important too, big guy.”

“And you know you will always have a home here, right?” Anjali said, her round face soft and concerned. She might not have known the Giant for quite as long as Hogarth had, but that hadn’t kept her from caring for him just as fiercely and unreservedly as any of her own children. Hogarth had known she would; his wife was fearless when it came to their family, and even asleep, the Giant had always been a part of it. “I know that Earth hasn’t always been good to you,” she added. “But Rockwell still remembers you. All the people you saved; they haven’t forgotten.” In a way, the Giant had become the little town’s totem, their very own Paul Bunyan or Hercules … a savior who had not yet faded into legend. “They still tell stories about you, you know, and what you did. There are always going to be people here who love you.”

The Giant looked at them with glowing eyes like twinned moons, the tip of his finger resting easily within Hogarth’s one-armed embrace. “Hogarth, An-jali... like the deer,” he said at last, the deep rumble of his voice so quiet it was more felt than heard. “Can be hurt. Can die.”

“Well, yes. That’s part of being human. Has that been bothering you? Giant...” Hogarth shook his head. “Neither of us is planning on leaving you anytime soon. Parvati and Dean love you just like we do, you know, and their kids will, too.” He smiled up at his friend. “How could anyone possibly not want to hang around with someone as cool as you?”

“Hogarth...” The Giant fell silent, fingertips curling, lightly brushing against their backs. The feel of the warm metal made Hogarth’s skin tingle a little, and he wondered if this was the color-field language the autobots talked about. He had most of a hard drive full of the movies Hound had made for him, the Giant’s ‘colors’ all collapsed down so that he could see some of them. The Giant’s words were broken, slower, the big mech obviously making an effort to find the right alien words. “If find home, Ho-garth... will come with to moun-tain? Build... build new frames?”

Caught by surprise, Hogarth felt his throat constrict, a hiccuping little sound escaping. “It doesn’t work like that for us, big guy,” he managed to say. Anjali’s cheeks were wet, her hand lifting to stroke that gray plating once more.

“We must seem so young to you,” she said gently. “So young, with such short lives … Hogarth doesn’t want to leave you, I promise. None of us do.” Hogarth remembered, long ago, his wife comforting their children the same way, with almost the same words … speaking of samsara, and of karma, and of death. “Perhaps one day, in another cycle, we will be blessed with a life such as yours. But here, in this life--we are human, and Earth is our home. As short or as long as that life may be.”

The Giant was quiet for a long time. “Souls … don’t die,” he finally said, and Hogarth smiled helplessly, his throat aching with emotion.

“You remembered,” he said--then, a second later, felt like an idiot. Of course the Giant remembered. Grasping for a way to comfort his friend, Hogarth added, “The Autobots say they have sparks, you know. And that you have one too. I’m no Ratchet, but .. those sound like souls to me.”

The Giant placed his other hand thoughtfully over the broad gray planes of his chest, looking up at the stars once more. “Sparks … go home?”

“Maybe? I don’t know,” Hogarth said honestly. “Maybe souls go wherever they want to go.” He looked up at the night sky, holding Anjali close. “The universe is a big place, after all.”

Overhead, the stars wheeled their silent, slow dance. A falling star shot its brief, brilliant trail across the sky. The Giant rumbled, a deep sound like the shifting of the earth -- perhaps agreement, perhaps a kind of unease. Anjali wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

The evening grew colder, the dry desert bleeding its remnant heat away into the night. But it was warm here, pressed against metal so thick it seemed to have locked away the sun itself. Hogarth let his eyes drift shut.

In the quiet, the rattle of falling pebbles from nearby was easy to hear. Hogarth straightened, peering into the darkness. This close to the embassy, and with the Giant right there to protect them, he wasn’t overly worried about predators, of either the native or the Decepticon variety. Still ...

“Hello? Is someone out there?” he called.

A dark form detached itself from the shadow of a nearby cactus, moonlight gleaming from white plating, the red places washed out to gray in the faint light. “I’m sorry,” the small mech said hesitantly, obviously about to retreat. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I saw someone was over here, and thought …”

“It’s fine,” Anjali said, giving the new arrival an encouraging wave. “It’s Flipsides, right? Please, join us. It’s too beautiful a night not to share.”

“I... a-alright,” the little robot said softly, and came to them. He sat down on the ground, a few feet away, as if afraid to get too close.

“If you’re cold, you can come in closer,” Hogarth said easily. “The Giant makes a pretty good radiator, if I do say so myself -- and it’s gotta be cold out here, without a sweater.” He grinned at the small Autobot. “We haven’t talked much, have we?”

“No, we haven’t, I guess. I mean, I’ve mainly been in the medbay. And you don’t need to worry -- even at this temperature, I should be good for...”

“You really should have a sweater for nights like these.” Anjali patted the blanket beside her, meaningfully, fixing the little mech with her best motherly look. Mobile faceplates shifting in a rueful smile, Flipsides carefully scooted a bit closer, the sandy gravel crunching under his hands. Anjali wound her arm companionably around his elbow, fingers curled in his palm, as if to keep him just right there, close and warm.

Flipsides’ lambent blue eyes flickered--the Autobot version of a blink, Hogarth had learned. He held himself very still, as if afraid of moving too fast, or hurting them. “I... I guess I’m just not used to all the textiles here. Cybertron used to have some, imports mainly, but we didn’t need to wear them for warmth.” his eyes brightened. “Though there used to be some places where people wore clothing on a regular basis.”

“Really?” Hogarth tried to imagine it, and failed. What would giant robots wear? Scarves? Capes? Stocking caps with giant fluffy pom-poms? “Like what?”

Flipsides leaned his head back against the thick metal wall of the Giant’s upper leg. The smile on those finely articulated faceplates seemed more wistful now. “Oh, all kinds. It was mostly for decoration, of course; organic fabrics are so fragile. But I remember that the mecha in Tarn wore these draping braids for a while, really pretty, that went down the arms and legs. Mecha would attach tiny bells to them, little ones, that chimed whenever they moved. In Uraya, important mecha sometimes wore... sashes, I guess is the best translation. They attached to the edges of pauldrons or sensory spines; sometimes they were woven of fibers so light that they floated in the air. I saw some with swirls of color that shifted with the magnetic fields of the planet, and others coated in nanites that glowed like... well, like Earth’s fireflies.”

“How lovely,” Anjali said, her expression soft as she listened. “I wish I could have seen them.”

“They weren’t very practical, of course,” Flipsides said, white shoulder-joints rising and falling in a human-style shrug. “Textiles like that take a lot of care and are so easy to damage … but they were beautiful.” He paused, looking up at the stars, then added softly. “Every city had its own styles. There were so many different places and different people. Cybertron was very beautiful, once.”

“You must miss it a lot,” Hogarth said sympathetically.

“Not as it is now, but … yes. I miss it,” Flipsides confessed. “Your world is beautiful, of course, in its own way. But it’s just not the same.”

“Not home.” The little Autobot started a bit at the Giant’s deep rumble. Looking upward, blue optics met the much larger mech’s glowing white ones in a moment of shared understanding.

“...yes. It’s just … not Cybertron.”

 

 

**********

 

Beachcomber was examining a flake from the support columns outside the medbay when one of the humans paused and inquired as to the status of his internals.

“Say what?” Beachcomber said, a bit startled, jarred out of his contemplative study. He sorted through his native language files for an appropriate response, even as he assessed the creature before him. The human was one of the rarer gracile types, capped in a dark mane. He was also carrying a small, though very solid, wrench-like tool used to calibrate nested quark arrays. The device was the length of his arm, and he carried it slung over one shoulder. The little organic displayed his dentae, the corners of his mouthparts pulled up and back. The facial configuration didn’t seem like a threat display, despite the baring of the human’s tiny fangs. Perhaps it was meant to convey interest?

“Just wondering how your tertiary reactor torque-threading is holding up. Ratchet was fussing over it for ages.” His vocalizations were particularly pleasant -- higher-pitched than those of most of the other humans. The organic examined him with watchful optics, heaving the wrench around to the other shoulder. “And are you having any problems kneeling like that? We barely had a week to put that hip back together.”

Beachcomber blinked. “Whoa--you helped bang me together? Groovy!” That explained those interesting small oil-dots all over his circuitry.

“Yeah,” said the human -- an affirmative statement, Beachcomber discovered, when he checked it against his lexicon. “Well, a little bit, at least. The only part I had all by myself was the anterior... the thing with the... hell. The curvy s-shaped part that runs inside your thigh, right next to the main support struts.” The human’s mobile mouthparts turned down, pinched in an expression uncannily like that of a worried mech. “Does it feel okay, by the way?”

“It sure does,” Beachcomber hastened to reassure him. “I’m totally mint. Ratchet himself couldn’t have done better.” The human’s expression brightened at the praise, his backstruts straightening with pride -- Beachcomber had always thought organics charming, but these humans raised delight to a whole new level. How strange to find such a mechanically-inclined species on such an organic planet! He tilted his helm, pinging a few internal diagnostic inquiries and translating their responses into the local dialect. “Your work is awesome; I’m really stoked about how you smoothed the loading points,” he told the little creature. “The name’s Beachcomber. What’s your handle?”

“I’m Mikaela,” said the human, exposing his dentae again. “It’s good to see you up and around. Have you been outside yet?”

“I have. Your atmosphere is awesome,” Beachcomber said approvingly. There was an astonishing amount of radio traffic here-- so much that he was still in the midst of sorting through all the captured input in order to find a coherent way of fitting in that meshed well with his underlying coding and belief systems. There were just so many options! “Makes it real easy to listen to all the spheres singing at each other. The Age of Aquarius, comin’ in loud and clear!”

Mikaela performed an intricate maneuver with his brow ridges, and issued a multipurpose, high-pitched breathy sound, which Beachcomber set to comparing against other human vocalizations. Apparently, similar tones could have a multitude of meanings. In this case... amusement? “Thanks, I guess? I didn’t have anything to do with it, but I’m glad you like our air.” Mikaela shifted the wrench back to his right shoulder.

One of Beachcomber’s peripheral situational threads reported a mismatch between human design specifications and the wrench’s density. “Where are you headed? You need some help slinging that around?”

Mikaela lifted his free shoulder in an odd little rippling motion but heaved the wrench into Beachcomber’s palm anyway. “Sure, if you’re up for it.” The human tilted his helm back to watch Beachcomber stand, apparently watching for any sign of weakness or disequilibrium. “I was headed up to the --” he vented a tiny little puff of air, “the thingamajig that looks like a satellite dish. Uhm, the ssSh-re’ping’shee-brriEng?”

Beachcomber blinked, parsing that, then doing it again under a broader set of conjectures. Either the human wanted three young boltbats steamed over wax in a barbed-wire party dress, or... “The interstellar communications array?”

“Yeah. Primus, your language is a tough nut to crack.” He heaved another vent, falling in beside Beachcomber’s pedes.

“Really? Yours is totally groovy--so many cultural assumptions and sweet cadence motifs. I totally dig it.”

“Uhm. Good?” Mikaela didn’t sound too certain. “Speaking of digging things, what’s up with that bit of concrete you were looking at?”

“It’s the crystals, man. They’re totally full of good vibes.” Which seemed a clear enough answer to him, but apparently not to Mikaela, considering the sidelong look he got in response. “The tobermorite. There’s not much, but you see these places, here and here?” he offered the small chunk of concrete to the human. “I’ve never seen that rock’s mechanical properties used like that before. It’s really something else.”

“Uhm,” said Mikaela, squinting his optics at the chip.

“Did you have the idea to add the crystals in, or did they form on their own?”

“I--uh--” Mikaela briefly shuttered his little optics. “I’m not sure? I don’t usually work with stuff like that. I know there’s all different kinds of mixes they use for concrete, depending on what they need it for. You’d probably need to ask one of the army engineers about that.”

“Right on.” Beachcomber nodded; it was pretty simple to adapt human body language to a Cybertronian frame, and it never hurt to add in a few nonverbal cues.

“Right.” Mikaela reset his vocalizer. “Well, we’re here. And I think you probably have stuff to do. With other crystals. So....”

“Sure!” The humans used other crystals to construct their dwellings? This surely bore further investigation! Beachcomber handed the quark recalibrator back down to him. “Peace out,” he said, bidding the human farewell.

“Uh. You too.” Mikaela hurried to palm the hatch lock.

Beachcomber watched the little organic trot through the door, then turned back down the hallway. The natives’ use of their local minerals was quite innovative, and if the Autobots intended to build their own structures on such a rocky planet, it was obvious they would need to adapt their usual building methods to the resources at hand. More samples were obviously called for!

 

 

***********

 

The door hissed shut, and Mikaela heaved a groan. “Oh man … you seriously gotta tell Blaster to quit showing the new guys his entire movie collection. Especially the stuff from the sixties and the seventies!”

A clatter echoed from behind several piles of equipment. “Oh dear. Beachcomber? He... didn’t decide to be a, uhm, one of those people in the red velvet suits and big animal-print fedoras, did he?”

“A pimp? No, it’s worse,” Mikaela said, hauling the wrench-thing across the bot-sized, carved-out chamber. With fifty-pound pieces of gear to haul around, weightlifting in the military's gym was really superfluous, these days. It was a side-benefit of working with the mechs, she told herself -- really it was. “He’s a *hippie*.”

“And that’s … bad? Uhm, did you bring the--”

“Just seriously weird -- felt like I’d been time-warped back to the seventies. And yeah, I got it right here." Mikaela found a flat surface near the working mech and hefted the giant wrench-thing off of her shoulder, being careful not to get her fingers pinched beneath as she set it down. Her left thumbnail was still kinda black on one edge from the last time she'd tried to move something too heavy and awkward. Hands fisted at the small of her back, she stretched, unkinking protesting muscles as she surveyed the disassembled equipment. "Oomph. What a mess."

"Don't worry." Flipsides finished with the tangle of wiring and stood, reaching to pick up the calibrating wrench as if it weighed nothing at all. He gave her a reassuring smile. "This is just a bit of recalibration and component testing. I’ve already sent a few test messages out to Cosmos; we’ll get this up and running in no time."

Flipsides tilted his helm back to regard the disorderly assortment of equipment along with Mikaela, optics tracing the leads and wiring. She didn’t know a tenth of what all this stuff did -- just that when properly set up, the strange, flared panels could send messages through solid stone as easily as through an atmosphere or across the galaxy. “Yeah. We’ll get everything fixed right up,” the little mech repeated, quietly. It sounded a little like a promise--though to whom, Mikaela wasn’t sure.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” she said instead, dusting her hands off on her pants. “One functional interstellar thingamajig, coming up. What’s next, boss?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, when are you guys gonna tell people about the hatchlings? I hate to say it, but the news is gonna get out eventually. From the Iranians, if nothing else,” Epps said, finally broaching the worry that had been eating him for the past two weeks. He’d found Kup alone at the firing range, and seated himself on a handy boulder to watch. It was a good thing they had space out here. The targets were the size of bottlecaps, but even then, the thing that shot the little ceramic spheres into the air had to be a good mile away just to give the mechs a challenge. It put Epps’s own sharpshooting to shame, that was for damn sure.

Optimus’ truce with the Command Trine had not been an easy one for the Autobots to accept. There had been other such truces and temporary alliances over the course of their long war, but they had never lasted. That this particular truce was with *Starscream* was an especially bitter pill to swallow. Creator-mech or not, the Autobots knew Starscream would betray them all in a nanoklik if he thought it would get him what he wanted. Only the fact that the balance of power on Earth was firmly in the Autobots’ favor--for now--kept Optimus’ senior staff from staging an outright mutiny at the proposal.

Well, that and the hatchlings.

Much as the Autobots hated to admit it, the existence of the little mecha had changed everything. Starscream’s newsparks might be savage little proto-Decepticon Seekerlets, but even so, no one wanted to risk snuffing out the first newsparks any of them had seen in a megavorn. Killing Decepticons was one thing. But these hatchlings were possibly the last newsparks they might ever see; the last hope of a dying Cybertron. Not even the most battle-hardened Wrecker wanted to be responsible for snuffing out those tiny lives.

Which left the Autobots with a thorny problem indeed. How were they to handle their local Decepticon infestation, when killing them all--or even driving them offplanet--was no longer an option? Popular opinion swung back and forth as the news raced through the rank and file. Some Autobots, particularly the Wreckers, favored forcibly removing the little warframes from their creator before they could be infected by his madness. Other, calmer voices favored leveraging their way into some kind of joint guardianship, using the enticement of supplies and medical expertise--and ensuring compliance, if necessary, with the threat of exposing the rebel colony to Megatron’s tender mercies.

For now, under Optimus’ influence, consensus seemed to favor the latter option. Would it last? Who knew? But in the meantime, it left plenty of time to cast suspicious eyes and sensors towards Iran, and for the Autobots to gossip and exchange the latest images of the newsparks. Hatchlings! Twenty-six of them--and all in one clutch! Comms and conversations buzzed through the air as speculation churned.

A brave few had tried to interrogate Ratchet, only to be threatened with the removal of their vocalizers when the medic had tired of the constant badgering. So they had turned to the Giant. He soon became a favored gathering place for off-duty Autobots and humans alike, many of them perching both on and around the big mech, peppering him with questions. How large were they? Were there really twenty-six? Were they all airframes? Really? No grounders? How disappointing …. What were their names? Were they being treated well? How would any of the Autobots know if they weren’t? How did one handle Seekerlets anyway?

“With a leash and a big stick,” Leadfoot groused, who was not a big fan of airframes, miniature or otherwise.

“Now wait a minute,” Fireflight protested, perched on one of the Giant’s shoulders. “They’re just babies. How bad can they be?”

“*Seeker* babies,” Leadfoot groused. “Which means they’ll tear apart anything they’re interested in, then fight over what’s left. And you can’t even corral them and let ‘em pound on each other like you would regular warsparklets. It’s impossible to keep Seeker hatchlings in one place. Those little fraggers are worse’n cassettes--you could nail their pedes to the floor, and it wouldn’t matter. They get into EVERYTHING.”

“I still think it would be nice to have a few,” Fireflight said wistfully. “Little sparkling fliers--just think of all the things we could show them!” He swung his white-armored legs back and forth, glancing around. “I mean, just because Starscream made them doesn’t mean they have to be Decepticons, right?”

Leadfoot grunted, seating himself on the Giant’s pede with a clank. “That’s what Prime keeps sayin’, yeah. But only a third of us’re warframes, and almost alla them are. You really think those bitty warsparks are gonna choose any different?”

“So it’s not like factions are set in steel,” Fireflight said dreamily, oblivious. “Maybe we could get Starscream to agree to some sort of a rotating-visit thing. It wouldn’t have to be all of them, maybe just a few at a time…”

“Yeah, you go on thinkin’ that,” Leadfoot snorted, examining his talons. He pulled a heavy iron file from his subspace and set to work on some of the burrs. “Just don’t come runnin’ to me when one of ‘em pulls apart Teletraan to play inside the main terminal. Or when one of ‘em pulls apart a human, for that matter. They lose a limb, and they get all upset, humans.” Speaking of humans, he really ought to find one. Getting the iron file at just the right angle wasn’t easy, but the little organics were fragging amazing at it. Epps would tell him to frag off, though, if Leadfoot tried co-opting any of his subordinates. Or as the human had put it, ‘I am a highly-trained weapons specialist and a fucking master sergeant. I am NOT giving no giant robot a fucking manicure.’ Leadfoot scowled at his blunted talons, applying a bit more force as he honed the edges. Maybe ‘Bee would let him borrow his human instead?

“Besides,” Sideswipe put in, leaning on one broad gray ankle. “They’re *Starscream’s* hatchlings. D’you really think that glitched fragger wouldn’t slag any hatchling he thought might turn Autobot?”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Fireflight said, horrified. “Even Starscream wouldn’t--” He glanced down, taking in the serious expressions around him. “He would? That’s … that’s ….”

“Unthinkable,” Skydive told him gently. “But the Decepticons been doing the unthinkable for a long time now. I’m not sure Starscream sees the difference anymore.” Perched further down, on top of the Giant’s bent knee-joint, he looked up at his brother. “I’m just hoping that Thundercracker and the rest still care enough not to let him, if it comes to that. But that’s another reason why we need to keep an eye on them. Created sparks can be stubborn--sometimes they don’t always turn out like their creator intended. On Cybertron, they were always able to find their proper place and function. But here, among the Decepticons?” He gave an eloquent shrug, rippling his plating and lifting open hands, human-style. “I hope, for their sake, they’re all the warsparks that Starscream claims they are.”

Fireflight’s field rippled with _distress/concern_. “What if they aren’t? What if there’s a little baby makerspark or foundationspark in that clutch? Would Starscream force them into a warframe anyway? That would be awful!” He turned his attention to the Giant. “Giant--you saw them, right? All of them? Were they happy? Were any of them … different from the others?”

The Giant looked down at the worried mech. “Babies … many co-lors.” He paused, obviously trying to translate what he saw, the wash of his field rippling in a cascade of vivid rainbow hues. “All of them … happy ex-cited angry figh-ting happy. Play-fight-sleep.” Reassuring ribbons of green threaded through that enveloping field, an almost palpable paternal calm. “All same. None hurt.”

Sideswipe snorted, the puff of air from his vents pluming dust up from the rocky ground. “Yeah, that sounds like a bunch of warsparks, all right. Don’t think you need to worry too much about that, ‘Flight.”

“Which doesn’t mean we can’t keep an eye on them,” Skydive said. “And that’s why I think Optimus’ plan might actually stand a chance. It’s almost guaranteed that Starscream will use his hatchlings as leverage--but that only works if they’re alive. The minute Optimus hears Starscream has slagged one of his creations? All bets are off.”

“If he does that, though, what about the humans?”

“What about ‘em?” Leadfoot growled.

Fireflight tapped his heels. “I mean, he’s camped out practically on top of seventy-odd million of ‘em, just in Iran. He could glass that whole area in about ten breems. Or the biggest cities, anyway. So if something happens to a hatchling, and we swoop in to take the rest of ‘em….”

Skydive frowned. “I know, but what can we do? There’s no way we can protect the entire planet from Seeker attack. Not yet, anyway. All we can do is hope that our presence provides enough of a deterrent to stalemate any genocidal ideas Starscream might come up with.”

Leadfoot shrugged. “Starscream might be crazy, but he ain’t stupid. He slags the local humans, there ain’t going to be any others willing to let his faction park their afts in their backyard. Threats and intimidation are only gonna work if the humans think they’re not going to get slagged when he doesn’t need ‘em anymore. And the ‘Cons have already taught most of the planet that Cybertronians aren’t to be trusted. Nah, Starscream probably won’t slag the locals--not until the hatchlings are old enough to survive off-planet, anyway.”

“Optimus is right,” Skydive said quietly. “They don’t deserve it, but we have to give the Decepticons other options. Because if we back them into a corner, if we force them to make good on their threats … then both the humans and the hatchlings will suffer because of it.” He looked up at his brother, their fields shifting as Fireflight resonated with his gestalt-brother’s determination. “So we’re not going to let that happen. No matter what it takes.”

 

***********

 

Red Alert leaned forward, studying the ever-changing datamaps of local space, working in tandem with Teletraan-1, parsing and recrunching data. Both human-made terminals--less useful due to their limited optical output--and scavenged holoscreens from the Ark crowded every wall of the small cavern, data flickering across them in ebbs and swells, a never-ending river of information.

This was Teletraan’s hub, the sensory nerve center of the embassy. While the AI was more than capable of handling routine monitoring, hard-won experience had taught the Autobots that AIs, literal as they were, could be fooled. It was up to Red Alert to spot patterns and flag seemingly-routine signals that Teletraan might miss, to make the higher-order decisions that an AI simply did not have the latitude to handle. And while such work was his function, what he had been sparked to do, it was also a responsibility; one he did not take lightly.

His current concern, however, was the latest sheaf of Sky Spy’s navigational reports. The satellite hung now at the rim of Earth’s outermost magnetic strata, exposed to solar winds and turbulence. Teletraan had noticed a faint perturbation in Sky Spy’s orbit. Flagging it as a minor--if unexpected--hazard of local planetary space, the AI had already started course corrections for solar changes.

It was possible, Red Alert thought, that Teletraan was correct. Solar storms could influence satellites, though Cybertronian technology -- even the war-worn and makeshift kind -- shouldn’t even have noticed the interference.

Over the last few cycles, however, this system’s sun had been unusually stormy, spinning whorls and eddying spots up from its pyroclastic mass. The humans, primitive as they were, had at least advanced enough to realize the necessity of monitoring their own star. Their solar probes were crude by Cybertronian standards, but when added to reports from the lunar monitoring posts and Sky Spy’s data, the results were usable enough--and to Red’s thinking, slightly worrying. The local sun’s unusual activity could signal any number of things: a different phase in its cycle, or the equivalent of a stellar hiccup--even an echo of the Fallen’s long-ago attempt to harvest its energies. Whatever their cause, the coronal loops cast out a rain of charged particles whenever they flared, showering Earth’s satellites with charged particles of every kind.

But if, as Teletraan believed, the solar anomalies were truly causing Sky Spy’s sluggishness, then the paired streams of data should line up. And yet… very occasionally, they did not. Red Alert froze the anomalies with a flickered thought-command, and regarded them, frowning.

No one else had flagged the discrepancies; the variations were infinitesimal, and not suspicious in any way that Red Alert could articulate. It still set him on edge, however, and made the background hum of his deep-coded paranoia twitch, looking for explanations. The glitched part of his coding immediately began spinning up scenarios, each more dire than the last, and Red Alert growled a little in frustration.

Pausing, he took himself out of the dataflow and focused instead on his predictive coding, assigning probabilities to each scenario as it presented itself. Likelihood that Sky Spy’s energy source had been sabotaged before launch: 0.034 percent. Scraplets secreted aboard the satellite: 0.007 percent. Debris deliberately magnetized to Sky Spy: 0.00342 percent. Solar wyrm spawning in the system: 0.000102 percent … Red Alert could feel his systems slow, his tension ebbing as he contemplated the sheer improbability of those outcomes. Smokescreen had worked long and hard to help him come up with the meditative technique. It wasn’t foolproof, but it did help, allowing him to realign his priority queues and break out of the ever-tightening spiral of worst case scenarios his paranoia liked to come up with.

He could consult with Prowl--but Prowl would only ask what was wrong in that calm, reasonable way of his, and Red Alert would… he didn’t know what he’d say. No … alerting Prowl would not be useful. Not until he had more solid information for the tactician to work with, at least. Optics narrowed, Red Alert transmitted a course correction, as well as a series of adjustments to Sky Spy’s spaceward sensor suites. If Teletraan’s assumptions were correct, if the solar activity were truly causing interference, then the commands would compensate for the additional radiation load on Sky Spy. If not….

Something slammed into the door of the security office. “Haha! Betchya can’t catch -- hah!”

“Spark and scraps!” Red Alert yelped, jarred out of his single-minded focus. His fuel pump felt like it had jumped straight up into his vocalizer. He twisted around, checking the cameras. Then, fuming, signaled the heavily-reinforced, triple-locked hatch to open. The door whisked back on three very surprised mechkin.

“Oh hi. Err, sorry,” said Rewind, while Eject did his best to conceal their gambado ball behind his back.

“Uhm,” said Flipsides, looking downcast.

“What are you--! Gambado? You have an entire mountain to play on, and you have to play gambado *here*? Are you trying to set off all the alarms?” Red Alert scowled at them, determinedly ignoring the scenarios his glitched coding was churning up. The mechkin were NOT spies. Or rather, they were, but they were their spies. Autobot spies. “I’d expect something like this from you two,” he told a grinning Rewind and Eject, “but honestly--you too, Flipsides? You should know better!”

Flipsides shuffled his pedes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Weren’t your fault, ‘Sides! The ball just got away from us, Red, we’re gonna take it outside right--”

“Well, you’d better!” harrumphed Red Alert. “In fact--”

“There a problem?” inquired a much more resonant voice, smooth as polished steel.

Blaster. The big carrier was calm, his field even, but Red Alert still double-checked to make sure none of his battle-protocols had queued up. Blaster was a friend, and they’d battled together for millennia, saving each others’ afts more times than Red cared to count. But he was still a Chronicler-carrier, and the last thing the security mech wanted to do was make Blaster think Red Alert was threatening his cohort.

“Yes,” he said bluntly, levelling another accusatory stare at the trio of mechkin. “Blaster, could you please explain to your cohort--again--which areas are and are NOT appropriate for their games? I have important duties here, and we are short-staffed as it is; I cannot afford to be distracted!”

“Whoa, okay. Got it, Red,” Blaster said placatingly. “Sorry man--sometimes the kids just get a bit rambunctious. Don’t worry, I’ll kick ‘em outside to play.” A quick look from their master, and the mechkin scampered off, Rewind and Eject already tossing the ball back and forth with characteristic obliviousness. Flipsides, at least, seemed a bit more embarrassed by the fuss, casting a last uncertain glance over his shoulder before trotting after his brothers. “See? Easy fix, dude, no worries.”

Red Alert fixed him with a glare. “Maybe this time, but what about the next? There is a time and place for games, Blaster, and next to the security operations center is not it!”

Blaster straightened. “Maybe. But sometimes ya gotta make your own fun, dude. Otherwise the war will suck all of it right out of ya.” His field rippled with sympathy, even as his glyphs underscored his meaning with pointed disagreement. “You could use some downtime yourself, my mech. Take it from someone who knows.”

Red Alert frowned. “What I need are more perimeter patrols and fewer security breaches, Blaster, not fun.” He reflexively tamped down on the urge to tally up all the weak spots in their current patrol patterns, determinedly kicking the half-formed report to the bottom of its queue. “And no one can help with that until we have more mecha. So unless you have something else to report, I need to get back to work.”

Blaster vented a sigh, but obediently turned away, heading down the corridor after his symbionts. “All right, I won’t badger you. But if you change your mind, Red, you’re welcome ta join us. The world won’t end if you get someone to take over for you for a joor or so,” he called back over his shoulder. Then the big mech disappeared around the corner, waving a greeting to Seaspray as the smaller bot trundled by, arms full of equipment.

Securing the hatch once more, Red Alert shook his helm and turned back to his console. Something about the carrier’s interaction with his mechkin felt as if it should spark a memory… something from databanks long since lost to the wear of time, perhaps. He’d known other mechkin, of course. There had even been one in the Kaon Arena’s medical unit, one vaguely reminiscent of Flipsides, though with a different name, frame schematics, and color scheme. But several hundred thousand vorn was a long time, even for Cybertronians. Hardware changed, and all-too-often data faded or changed with it. Even the best memory banks eventually lost fidelity, due either to damage or to the gradual warp of cosmic rays and dimensional flux shifts. Still, if only Blaster’s three mechkin could be more like that other symbiont -- he at least had been professional, and dedicated to his work. Certainly less prone to playing gambado in the security hallway!

The satellite feeds had settled back into normal operating parameters, Sky Spy responding flawlessly to the new altitude parameters. The corrections to Sky Spy’s course had solved the problem of solar interference, just as Teletraan predicted. There was nothing amiss: had *been* nothing amiss. Sky Spy was just a little more sensitive to solar storms than Red Alert had calculated. He’d been seeing things again; patterns where there were none.

With a small mental shake, Red Alert turned back to the local cameras, setting himself to sorting through human communiques even as he absorbed the video feeds from other areas of the embassy. Wheeljack’s lab, the medbay, the perimeter ….. Another signal popped up from Sky Spy. “What now?” Red alert growled, turning his attention to the data packet … and he froze. This one was no stellar anomaly, no glitch or piece of space trash. It was a ship, one that wasn’t even trying to hide--

\--and it was heading straight towards Earth.

 

***********

 

“So, when are you guys gonna tell people about the hatchlings? I hate to say it, but the news is gonna get out eventually. From the Iranians, if nothing else,” Epps said, finally broaching the worry that had been eating him for the past two weeks. He’d found Kup alone at the firing range, and seated himself on a handy boulder to watch. It was a good thing they had space out here. The targets were the size of bottlecaps, but even then, the thing that shot the little ceramic spheres into the air had to be a good mile away just to give the mechs a challenge. It put Epps’s own sharpshooting to shame, that was for damn sure.

Kup stretched, twisting his torso, arms still bristling with weaponry. Springer had once told him that folding up hot weapons could be uncomfortable, Epps recalled. “Still haven’t heard anything from the Prime one way or the other. Personally, I’m of two threads ‘bout the whole mess,” the blue-gray bot admitted.

“I hear you,” Epps said, leaning back on his hands and squinting up at his companion. “But the brass is gonna figure out sooner or later that this truce is an official thing. Might help if they knew why beforehand.” Ahmadinejad had been all over the news recently, delivering several of his podium-pounding speeches. One of the broadcasts even had him railing against western decadence while a Decepticon rotary grunt stood behind him, as if in solidarity. Epps thought the mech had looked more bored than menacing, though, and the clip had been very short, oddly truncated. It hadn’t taken long for Red Alert to dig up the full recording from a ‘secure’ Iranian governmental system. Apparently the mech in question had decided he’d had enough of the photo op; he’d left without warning, transforming in the middle of the speech and leaving the stadium scattered with trash and panicked officials in his wake.

The various intelligence agencies were still combing through the video file, trying to decide whether to release it to the public. But in the meantime, things were tense in the press. Mission City, Giza, Chicago … humans might not have long memories, but the Decepticons had given them more than enough reasons over the last few years to be worried.

“Maybe.” Kup shook his arm out -- knocking a last couple of internally-generated rounds into position, probably -- and took aim at a few more targets. Most of the spheres were invisible to Epps at this distance, others just pale streaks against the sun-reddened dunes. “Cybertronians have already caused a whole lotta destruction on your planet, though. The news that we’re reproducing could be taken a bunch of ways. What’s your read on the reaction?”

Epps blew out a breath, thinking while Kup fired. The sound of the blasts was now muffled to low puffs, though he hadn’t seen the mech’s guns change at all. “Well, twenty-six is a lot. What if he does it again? I can see people being worried; we might be dealing with hundreds of new Decepticons.”

Kup’s optics flickered, the big mech twisting around to look at him. “What? Epps--I don’t think ya need to worry about that. Pit, I’d’ve said a clutch of twenty-six was impossible to begin with. I’ve never heard of any creator sparkin’ so many, and I’ve been around a fragging long time. Starscream must’ve spent years sparking them all. And maybe twenty thousand Earth-years of pent-up energy, too.” He shook his helm.

“Hm,” Epps said, nodding slowly. “Any idea how long we have until these guys become a threat? Jazz said they didn’t have any weapons yet.”

Kup snorted, a hard vent that raised plumes of dust from the stony ground. “Depends on what you mean. They’ve got claws right now; prob’ly sparked with them. But actual weapons? You’re talking at least a coupla vorn. Couple hundred years for you folks. Close to a millennia before they settle into their final frames. Even longer, if you wanna get them trained up proper.”

“Seriously? I mean, I figured that you guys don’t reproduce real fast. It’s just… well, that seems really damn slow. How’d you guys ever populate Cybertron?” Epps asked. He rolled grains of sand under his fingertips, feeling the scritch against his callouses.

“You’re talkin’ old history, kid.” Which, Epps reflected, was probably Kup’s favorite kind. The mech pulled a stick from his subspace. The Autobots had a name for the flammable rolls of metal wafers, but hell if it didn’t look like a cigar to Epps. Kup lit one end by holding it against his still-hot guns. “Partly, we just live a damn long time. Not many races messed with us. Cybertron can be a pretty dangerous place, but we’re slagging hard to kill.” Epps nodded, thinking of Jazz. “Seekers and other warframes got themselves into trouble more often, o’course, but they also reproduced faster -- about three a decavorn was average for their creator-mecha. But mostly, we had the Allspark. It made people a whole lot more quickly.”

Epps thought about that. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he was working with aliens that lived on a whole different timescale than he did. The Autobots just seemed so human, sometimes--even when they were being assholes. Maybe especially when they were being assholes. His entire life, though, was just a flash in the pan compared to them--a firefly’s flicker of light. Even if he lived to be a hundred, he’d never see those baby ‘bots all grown.

“D’you think there are other creator-mecha out there?” Epps asked, shoving the thought away. A hundred years might be nothing to a ‘bot, but he had more than enough problems right here and now to deal with. No sense in borrowing more of ‘em. “More who could do… whatever Starscream's done? Making new--baby bots, or frametypes, or something?”

“The galaxy is a big place,” Kup shrugged, the alien ripple of plating and shifting components now just as recognizable to Epps as the more familiar human version. “They’d haveta be well-hidden, I suppose, maybe tucked in among the few pockets of neutrals. If there are even any o’ those left--ain’t easy bein’ neutral when the war is pretty much everywhere.” He tilted his helm back, surveying the stars he could probably see beyond the glare of the sun. “And creator-mecha weren’t common, even before alla this. Maybe one in a thousand. Pit, I’m not sure there are much more than a thousand of us left.”

“Hn.” Epps thought for a bit. “So when was ‘Screamer building these new guys anyway?”

“Sparking. Sparking them.” Kup turned his piercing blue gaze back to Epps and took a considering puff on his cigar-thing. It smelled a little like burning tires, old welding equipment, and, oddly, overcooked bacon. If Epps didn’t know better, he’d have said the old mech looked uncomfortable. “Hadn’t thought about it. But I suppose --” He blinked, looked up. “Hunh. What’s gotten under Red’s plating this time?”

Epps stiffened, scanning the horizon. “Another attack?” He glanced back over at the humvee, where he’d left his weapons. Not that they’d do more than annoy any attacking Decepticon, but if there was one thing NEST had learned, it was the value of a well-timed distraction. Especially when that distraction gave your giant metal buddies time to get their asses in gear and blow said Decepticon to kingdom come.

“Nah, he’s not freaking out that much. Not yet, anyways. No, someone new is headin’ in. Red just caught their signal and--huh. Well, I’ll be slagged.” Kup stepped back, transforming into his alt in a flurry of blue-gray metal, until a dusty pickup sat where the old warframe had been. A beefy Ford F-series truck, to be sure, and there was a helluva lot of armor and weaponry under that battered exterior, but still … a truck. Epps shook his head. He’d never understood Kup’s choice of alt. All the other Autobots had gone for either shiny alts or badass ones--often shiny *and* badass at the same time. Kup, on the other hand, wouldn’t have looked all that out of place sitting out behind some farmer’s barn. The only thing Epps could figure was that the warframe was old enough that he didn’t have to impress the kiddies. Kup knew he was badass, and he didn’t need no bling to prove it.

A weatherbeaten door swung open. “Saddle up, Master Sergeant,” Kup announced. “They’re comin’ in hot, and it looks like we just got drafted ta be the welcome wagon.”

“Right.” A brief detour to grab his weapon--which wasn’t exactly standard issue anymore, thanks to Wheeljack--and Epps was swinging himself into the driver’s seat. He hastily buckled himself in as Kup took off, his engine rumbling alien harmonics through the metal under his fingertips. “What’s coming in? More ‘Cons? Do Lennox and the others know?”

Kup gave a growling chuckle. “Yeah, they know--they’ll be meetin’ us there. But these guys are probably the furthest thing from ‘Cons you’ll ever meet. Buncha bleedin’ sparks, most of ‘em, though that won’t stop ‘em from giving the ‘Cons a good aft-kicking if they need to. They prob’ly started burning straight in the minute Aid and the others heard about the trouble down here on the ground.”

“Aid?” Epps said. Odd name even for the ‘Bots, who seemed to pretty much pick them right out of comic books.

Kup laughed, a rumble that went right through the not-upholstery. “You’ll see,” he promised.

 

***********

 

“Still say it wouldn’t hurt none for them to put some of those green things over here. What is that stuff? Just little rocks? You’re on my side, right, First Aid? ‘Aid? Hey, Kup!” Groove waved from behind his gestaltmate, switching languages mid-sentence as the veteran pinged them the local linguistics file.

“You gonna stand around on the gangplank forever, or what?” Rotors flared to taste the air, Blades craned his helm for a glimpse of the rocky plain where the Corona had landed.

“Oh my,” First Aid breathed, as Epps clambered out of Kup’s alt. “It’s adorable!”

Epps paused. “... I’m what?”

Kup chortled as he unfolded out of his alt, standing up. “Down, Master Sergeant. Aid thinks everythin’ is adorable.” He propped taloned hands on his pelvic gimbals, tilting his helm to take in the ship. “It’s good t’see ya, kids, but you could’ve given us a bit more warnin’ before dropping straight in like that, y’know. You’re gonna have to give to apologize ta Red. Ya startled the hydraulic fluid right outta him.”

“Kup!” Blades bounded down the ramp, just as soon as Aid was clear, and two smaller mecha were right behind. Hot Spot disembarked last, and the little organic’s eyes widened, his head tilting up in uncanny mimicry of Kup to take in the gestalt leader’s greater size.

“I know,” Hot Spot ducked his helm. “But we were seeing Decepticon mining beacons all over this system, and it just seemed -- well, thought we’d come in fast and quiet, see what was going on. We didn’t have to punch through any resistance, though.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t’ve.” Kup dug around in his subspace and pulled out a half-burned cygar. “Things’ve changed--Prime’s orders. New galactic order, n’ all that. Jazz can explain the details in a klik; he’s on his way.” He jerked his helm at their battered ship. “Surprised you got so close without us knowing, though. Your ship looks like you made six passes through an interstellar scraplet cloud.”

“There’s really such a thing as an interstellar --” Hot Spot blinked, gave that some thought. “You’re pulling my bell crank, right?”

Blades was stretching luxuriously as he spun up his rotors, clearly glad to be out of the Corona regardless of its condition. First Aid circled to Kup’s side, where he crouched to more closely study the human. “Good heavens, you look just like a tiny mech, did you know that? And you’re chock full of little calcium struts -- do you use those for support? Or maybe mechanical leverage?”

“Er-” To his credit, Epps recovered quickly. No doubt exposure to Beachcomber--and Que, and Wheeljack, not to mention Perceptor--helped with that. By now the NEST sergeant was used to being quizzed by overly-fascinated alien scientists. “Calcium struts--you mean bones, right? They’re for support, mostly. Well, support and protection. Kind of like internal armor for some of our soft spots.”

“An endoskeleton!” First Aid echoed, looking down at Epps in open admiration. “And look--no carapace at all. And your species has managed to not only survive, but become the dominant beings on this planet … how extraordinary!”

Epps shrugged, slinging his rifle back over one shoulder as he exchanged an amused look with Kup. “What can I say? We might be squishy, but we’re mean sons of bitches. We’ve even managed to teach the ‘Cons a thing or two.”

“Alright--ya can swap stories later, kids,” Kup interjected. “Looks like the rest of the welcome wagon’s arriving; time t’straighten up and look like Autobots.” Welcoming hails had been pinging back and forth ever since the Corona had landed, and now the roar of engines was added, a broad plume of dust announcing the arrival of Optimus, Jazz and several others.

“Jazz!” Streetwise and Groove said happily, their fields flaring with joy and relief. They scrambled to meet the older mech, and First Aid wasn’t far behind. He scrutinized the other mech’s armor, inspecting him closely, and Jazz obligingly struck a pose, showing off his fully-repaired thorax. Streetwise grinned up at Jazz’s blue visor. “Not even on a new planet a vorn and you’re already getting into trouble--see what happens when you leave us behind?”

“You been keepin’ cool, my mecha?” Jazz replied, grinning back at them. “We’re certainly glad you’re here. Poor Ratchet could use the help. Heck, we all can--including th’ humans. We’re in a bit of a sticky situation.”

“We heard,” Hot Spot said gravely, stepping forward to greet Optimus. Bumblebee, Arcee, and Hound weren’t far behind him, their comms open and their fields full of welcome. “Sir. Is it true?”

“About the hatchlings?” Optimus asked, and Hot Spot nodded. “Yes. It is true--and Starscream is their creator.”

The response to that news was immediate; an incandescent, expanding bubble of _delight/joy/relief_ as all five mecha reacted in unison, their fields overlapping, echoing each other in five-part exhilaration. “Hatchlings …” First Aid breathed. “I never thought I would see ….”

Kup felt a sudden stab of pity. When the war had started, the Defensor gestalt had been barely more than mechlings themselves. Sparked to build, to maintain and mend, the exigencies of war had pressed them into the front lines. It was a minor miracle that they had even survived, especially when so many other gestalts had not. And Que and Hot Rod both had been well into their full frames, if not quite adults, by the time the Protectobots had encountered them.

Given all that, Kup wasn’t surprised that Hot Spot and his gestalt-brothers were fascinated by the thought of newsparks. In fact, he’d bet his secret stash of highgrade that a certain gestalt was going be first in line to volunteer to help with the next shipment of materials to Starscream’s little band of defectors. Pit, First Aid looked like he was about ready to drive to Iran himself in order to check over Ratchet’s handiwork, Decepticons or no Decepticons.

“Optimus, I would like to request permission to--”

Optimus shook his helm. “I’m afraid that is not possible. Not yet. Our truce with Starscream’s faction is still fragile, and the Decepticons are too protective of their newsparks--as they should be--to trust us near them unguarded.” Optimus looked down at them all, and Kup could feel the warm reassurance of their Prime’s field. “If this fragile alliance holds, however, you may have your chance. Which is why your arrival is so timely, my friends; for I believe there is no one better than you--all of you--at mending what has been broken.”

Arcee stepped up to lay one taloned hand on the medic’s arm. “Don’t worry, First Aid,” he said reassuringly, smiling up at the medic. “Ratchet’s already making sure they’re being properly taken care of. In fact, you may be busier taking care of him than the hatchlings. He’s been running himself close to redline, trying to incubate everything they need and take care of us too.”

Reminded of duties closer to home, First Aid straightened, looking over at his brothers. “Of course!”

Hot Spot also nodded, and the five Protectobots closed ranks, moving in eerie synchronicity. The gestalt leader, almost as tall as Optimus himself, met blue optics with a determined scarlet gaze. “We came because we want to help. Just tell us what you need us to do, Optimus.”

Optimus smiled, his field resonant with affection. “Thank you, Hot Spot. And the rest of you as well. Indeed--” he paused fractionally, helm tilting. Kup could sense a priority comm from Prowl, though it was far too well encrypted for casual eavesdropping. “Indeed,” Optimus continued, “we may already have a problem on our hands. The humans are reporting a large explosion in a nearby city.”

Kup tensed, and Epps took a step forward, hefting his rifle. “Decepticons?” the soldier asked, his face grim.

“It is too early to be certain, but the disturbance is centered around a chemical plant. It is possible that this is simply an industrial accident.” Optimus glanced over the assembled Autobots. “Still, the fire is proving difficult to contain, and the fumes are threatening the nearby humans. Human officials are asking for our assistance. Hot Spot--does your ship have sufficient fuel for atmospheric flight?” At Hot Spot’s nod, Optimus continued, “Then the Protectobots shall head to Wichita, along with Kup and Arcee. Cliffjumper and Topspin are en route--all four of you will provide backup to Defensor.”

The quantum pathways hummed with comms. While the Autobots were careful to communicate mostly aloud when among humans, English was simply too slow a language to carry so much information: human physiological tolerances, location, weather pattern readings, and more. _//And if it’s Starscream or his cronies?//_ Arcee asked, faceplates grim.

Optimus regarded the smaller mech. _//Prowl reports that the plant processes organic laminates, in which the Seeker faction should have little interest. However…//_ the Prime hesitated, just a nanoklik. Kup knew what he was thinking: was this how their fragile hope ended? So soon, and over so small a thing? _//However, Barricade and others are still at large. Keep commlines open; ping your status at breem intervals.//_

Arcee gave his Prime a nod of acknowledgment. “On it, Optimus.”

“And I’d better report in,” Epps said wryly. “Five gets you ten they mobilize NEST to keep an eye on things.” He glanced up at the Autobot leader. “Mind if I hitch a ride, Optimus?”

“Not at all.” Optimus folded down into his alt, winging a door wide for Epps to scramble up. Kup paused, waiting for that final, familiar call--

“Autobots, roll out!”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I understand what we risk,” Optimus said gravely. “This fragile peace could be so easily broken, not only by the Decepticons, but by the humans or even ourselves. But we have done so much harm to the humans since coming to Earth, it seems only right that we try to do equally as much good. Perhaps by doing so, both of our peoples will discover that we are stronger together than we ever were apart.” Optimus paused, blue optics piercing. “We cannot hide in caves forever, Red Alert. We must come out and stand in the light as mecha, as Autobots: with honor.”

It didn’t take Arcee and the others long to report in. Much to Optimus’ relief, they had found no signs of Decepticon activity at the chemical plant. The absence of their enemies, however, had not lessened the need for Autobot involvement. By the time the Protectobot ship landed outside of Wichita, the fire had fogged a good third of the city in toxic smoke, forcing entire neighborhoods to evacuate. Firefighters were struggling to contain the blaze, but their efforts were complicated by not only the need to get nearby residents out of harm’s way, but by smaller blasts that continued to rock the remains of the factory as the flames devoured one sealed tank after another.

By human standards, it was a disaster. By Cybertronian standards, it was an inconvenient mess, albeit a protracted one, and the Protectobots wasted no time in charging into the fray. This was, after all, what they had been built and sparked for. Hot Spot was in his element, working with the battalion commanders and pushing his way further into the deadly inferno, through areas far too dangerous for human firefighters to penetrate. Blades, Groove, and Streetwise helped with evacuations--including a group of firefighters that had been trapped when their route had collapsed in flames behind them--while First Aid transported the injured to the human paramedics waiting on the perimeter.

Kup and the others reinforced that perimeter, content to let the resident experts take the lead. The plumes of toxic smoke from burning chemicals were irritating, but Cybertronians were used to harsher environments. Charging into the flames was not an option, however. Not when they ran the risk of endangering lives or doing even more damage by doing so. So the frontliners lent their strength where they could, kept a wary optic out for Decepticons, and otherwise just tried to stay out of the way.

 _//I’ve never seen so much corn in my entire functioning. What do they do with it all?//_ Arcee groused, hooking heavy chains to yet another loaded railcar. Left unattended, the loads of dry grain could catch fire from a stray spark, or become contaminated by the toxic gasses. And with night fast approaching and the wind picking up, there was no more time to wait for the humans’ vehicles. The slender Autobot shrugged the chains over his shoulders, dug the edges of his bladed pedes into the heat-warped rails, and *heaved*.

Nine hundred tons of freight groaned reluctantly, wheels catching.

 _//Predominantly ethanol and animal feedstock, Arcee. Fourteen percent exported, eleven percent--//_ Prowl replied, absently cross-referencing US economic data while coordinating Autobot and local operations at the industrial site for maximum efficiency. The humans’ local emergency services were doing their best, but they were hampered by their technological and physical limitations, and the scale of this ever-shifting disaster had taxed them past their limits. Even from a distance, there was a great deal he could do. _//--industrial refining, of which one-point-three-three percent is devoted to--//_

Arcee huffed a vent and put his back into it. _//Rhetorical question, Prowl,//_ he managed. The six linked freightcars shivered, inched a bit forward -- and then gave a grinding jolt, lurching into motion.

Arcee looked up -- into optics each as big as his entire chassis, glowing against the murky sunset. “Thanks, Defensor!” the far-smaller Autobot called up as the gestalt eased the small train into rumbling motion with one enormous hand. Once the chain of cars had some momentum, Arcee could drag it along with little difficulty.

Defensor inclined his great helm briefly, then turned back to his task -- carefully clearing away splintered wood and knocking down some of the sturdier walls to smother the worst hot spots, hopefully keeping this edge of the blaze better contained. Though why humans built their structures of flammable materials, Arcee would never be able to understand.

Speaking of the humans... _//By the way, what was the designation of the officer who requested our assistance?//_

_//Master Sergeant Brenner. Of the 891st Engineer Battalion, 287th Sustainment brigade.//_

Arcee cursed sharply as the freightcar wheels jolted over a bit of scrap and dug his talons more fiercely into the chain. _//Huh. Well, they’re definitely here, but we haven’t made contact with that particular human yet.//_ Another plume of cinder-filled smoke washed over the slight frontliner and his burden, threatening to set the piled corn alight. _//Scrap. Gotta go--will keep you updated.//_

 

 

 

***********

Twelve hours into the Wichita fire, the next urgent request for assistance came in: an emergency evacuation of an Indonesian village.

This time, the danger was purely natural in origin--an active volcano spewing hot ash, creating deadly mudslides that had cut off the village and made evacuation impossible. The only way to rescue the villagers was through ash-choked skies that no human craft dared navigate, and Sky Spy’s orbit had provided frighteningly clear images of great rolling clouds of pyroclastic ash pouring down the sides of Mount Suoh. That, plus the panic from the human media networks, decided the Autobots. Optimus gave the order, and Skyfire and the Aerialbots departed at speed, racing to the other side of the planet to assist.

As the Autobots responded, saving lives and helping where they could, the human media networks were watching, broadcasting images and speculating on motivations.  Within days, even more requests began coming in, one after another, like a row of toppling dominoes. Less important or more overtly militaristic requests could be ignored or politely declined, but many of them were genuine in their need. Disconcerted by the sudden influx of attention, Prowl and Red Alert scrambled, coordinating existing operations with new requests, handling threat assessments and available resources. There was no way they could answer them all--or even most--of those requests, of course, and Red Alert would have preferred the Autobots refuse them all. But he was overruled by Optimus.

For Optimus Prime saw something new in those calls for aid. He saw how they symbolized not only the humans’ desperation, but also their growing acceptance of the Autobots. More than that, they were opportunities to show that the Autobots were more than just alien invaders that left nothing but death and destruction in their wake. Despite his security chief’s misgivings, Optimus could not ignore those pleas.

By the time the calls started coming in about the California wildfires, Red Alert could take no more, and he voiced those misgivings -- at length.

“We cannot afford to scatter our forces, Optimus! Even with the new arrivals, our numbers are pathetically few, and the Decepticons’ numbers have been growing. These requests--they could be traps, or turned into them, and the humans turned into hostages in an astrosecond--and then where will we be? With more dead Autobots and humans who hate our kind even more!” Red Alert vented, his systems running hot, his processor churning out scenario after gory scenario, fuelled by memory-files of Decepticons using those very same tactics on other worlds, in other battles. The chances Optimus was taking were ridiculous, and for what? To earn some scraps of ephemeral goodwill from organics that wouldn’t even be alive a vorn from now?

“Red Alert….”

“No, Optimus. I didn’t say anything when you let Megatron return to Cybertron. Or when you released Shockwave and Soundwave back into his talons, to be repaired enough to threaten us again one day. I even agreed to go along with your ridiculous excuse for an alliance with Starscream. But this is too important--this is our *safety* I’m talking about! We should be keeping our forces close, in territory we can control and secure. We need to secure our perimeters, need to finish our fortifications. We can’t keep relying on human technology and human guards. Not against the Decepticons!” His systems were running too hot, overcharged, his battle protocols queuing up, looking for an outlet. In a small, subthreaded portion of his processor, Red Alert knew he was overreacting, losing his professionalism in his function-inspired panic … and yet he couldn’t seem to bring himself to care. “They’re out there, Optimus--you know they are. I know you want to help the humans, but how many of their lives are you willing to exchange for our own?”

“Red Alert.” The imperative in that voice could no longer be denied, and Red straightened a little under the resonant call of his Prime’s words. Blue hands settled on his pauldrons, the weight of them grounding him, steadying him. “My friend, I understand your fears. And I share them; I do not wish to lose a single one of you. Too many Autobot lives have been lost in this war as it is.” Optimus looked down at the smaller mech, his silver faceplates grave, his field washing out in sorrow and reassurance. From their places on the sidelines, Prowl and Blaster watched, letting Optimus confront his security chief’s fears.

“But if we cannot yet return to Cybertron, then Earth must become our home. And we cannot make it ours if we confine ourselves to a single mountain or barricade ourselves away from the humans’ world.”

“But--”

“I understand what we risk,” Optimus said gravely. “This fragile peace could be so easily broken, not only by the Decepticons, but by the humans or even ourselves. But we have done so much harm to the humans since coming to Earth, it seems only right that we try to do equally as much good. Perhaps by doing so, both of our peoples will discover that we are stronger together than we ever were apart.” Optimus paused, blue optics piercing. “We cannot hide in caves forever, Red Alert. We must come out and stand in the light as mecha, as Autobots: with honor.”

Red Alert slumped, helm hanging. The Prime’s field was deeply, potently reassuring, and Red Alert could all but feel some portion of his panic bleeding away into that great wash. “I know, Optimus, but--the danger--” His optics were bright, pleading as he tried to convey his fears. “If we were to be attacked-- our perimeter patrols….”

Optimus’ fingers tightened a little on Red Alert’s pauldrons, offering support and strength. “The mecha on patrol are far from our only defense, even without counting on human assistance. We have the cameras, energon detectors, sensors, and Sky Spy -- all due in large part to your work, insulating us against future need. That need is now upon us. Do not doubt your work or the performance of your function, Red Alert, for I do not. You have prepared us well for this.”

“You really have, Red,” Blaster put in softly. “We might not be prepared for everything--but you’ve made sure we’re better fortified here than we’ve been in a long, long time.”

“I--” Caught between his fear and his embarrassed pride at Optimus’ trust, Red Alert struggled to regain his footing, clamping down on the paranoid subroutines that made processing new data so difficult. “I--I’m not sure I agree. But if Optimus thinks we’re ready for this ….” he paused, then lifted his helm, straightening his frame. “Then I will do my best to ensure that no one will be able to take advantage of that decision.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Optimus said, smiling. “I know I can count on you.”

 

 

 

  ************

  


Hefting several long lengths of copper piping over his shoulder, Flipsides waved cheerily at Wheeljack as he headed out of the embassy.

“Going to take the big guy a snack?” the inventor asked, glancing up from his current project.

“Yup! We got a new metal shipment in, and I thought I’d take some out to him,” Flipsides called back.

“Good idea,” Wheeljack agreed, watching the small figure of the mechkin trot out the door. “Have fun!”

“Will do!”

The Giant wasn’t far. Flipsides found the big mech at one of his favorite spots atop a nearby ridge, his optics turned thoughtfully up towards the sky. He hesitated, suddenly unsure whether or not to intrude. Then that big helm tilted, lowered, faceplates shifting into a smile as white optics focussed down on Flipsides’ diminutive form.

“Flip-sides,” the Giant said in greeting, the warm flare of affection in his field washing over the little Autobot. Then he took in what Flipsides carried, and affection turned to eagerness. “New metal?”

“Yes--it came in a couple hours ago. And I know how much you like copper, so--” Flipsides heaved the piping off his shoulder, lifting up the unwieldy lengths with a bit of effort. Crouching, the Giant picked up the snack with careful fingers, eyeing it appreciatively. Delicately picking one length of copper pipe out of the bundle, he popped it into his mouth, blunt dentae crunching down on the metal, optics half-shuttered in enjoyment.

Climbing onto a nearby rocky hillock, Flipsides settled down, happy to watch the bigger mech as he sat and enjoyed his treat. The copper piping didn’t last long, even though the Giant was obviously making an effort to savor each long cylinder. He crunched slowly, like a gourmand with a handful of energon goodies, until the last was gone, leaving them both basking in the glow of the Giant’s pleasure.

“Good metal,” the big mech said, venting a great hollow sigh of satisfaction. “Thank-you.”

“You’re welcome,” Flipsides said easily, smiling up at him. It was so easy to make the Giant happy.

The Giant lifted his helm once more, turning optics to the brilliant blue of the desert sky. With the sun high overhead, there wasn’t much to see. Nothing more than a few wisps of cloud, the faint figures of Autobots and humans alike on the other side of the embassy as they departed on rescue missions, and the dark shape of a bird in the far distance, carving slow, patient circles in the air. A vulture, perhaps. Or maybe a very large hawk. Hound would know for sure--

The Giant stiffened, helm snapping around. The warm, calm colors of that field faded, turning into sharp-edged, brilliant sparks of crimson and blue.

“What--what is it?” Flipsides asked, scrambling to his pedes. He scanned the horizon, looking for signs of trouble, resisting the urge to reach out to Blaster for reassurance.

The Giant was still for a single, endless moment, as if afraid to even move. Then he surged to his feet, faster than Flipsides had ever seen him move. “I go,” he rumbled, optics trained on something Flipsides couldn’t see.

“What? Wait--” Flipsides stumbled backwards, then caught himself, scrambling forward. “You can’t go by yourself … at least tell me what’s going on!”

About to step forward, the Giant hesitated, glancing downward. “I … hear song.”

“A song?” Flipsides said blankly. “You mean--radio waves? But the humans are always singing.” Not to mention talking, and shouting, and fighting and loving and making noise just for the sake of making noise ….

The Giant shook his helm. “No. Hear song. Diff-erent. Song call-ing ....” His helm lifted. “Old song. Home-song.” He turned away. “I go.”

“I--” Caught in a split second of indecision, Flipsides glanced back toward the embassy. Then he trotted after the big mech. “Wait! You shouldn’t go alone. I--I’ll go with you,” he said, shoving his misgivings aside. “Okay?”

The Giant nodded. “O-kay. We go … find song.”

 

 

 

************

With Inferno, Hoist, Grapple, and Seaspray dispatched to California to shepherd the wildfire away from flammable human settlements, Red Alert threw himself into the task of coordinating all the ongoing Autobot missions with even more fervor. Of course, Prowl had his talons full as well. Each of the three major rescue operations was complex, requiring careful and judicious monitoring. Supplies had to arrive just at the right place and right time. Human staff had to be on hand to distribute those supplies -- and the organics had to sleep and fuel frequently. Biohazards had to be treated properly, buried humans retrieved, and houses evacuated, all while dealing with the fluid shifting of human forces who, as often as not, did anything but what they were told. And perhaps most important of all, the media had to be managed--the last thing Prowl needed was for images of Inferno or Hot Spot, wading through flames with daggered plating flared and optics blazing with innocent excitement, to hit the internet.

 _//Prowl,//_ Red Alert’s ping intruded.

Simultaneously arguing with no fewer than thirty-seven various human factions in eleven different dialects, in addition to rearranging Red Cross operations on the fly, the tactician freed a primary thread from the intricate logistical weave. “Decepticon activity?”

Red Alert hesitated a nanoklik, then shook his helm. “Unlikely,” he said flatly. “The energon detectors report no movement. However…” the security mech’s glyphs were heavy with unspoken paranoia. “However, the Brazilian government is now also requesting assistance. Apparently there has been a mining collapse.”

Prowl paused, sorting the possibilities, ranking them and looking for outliers. While the occurrence of four major disasters in less than two planetary rotations was far from unusual on Earth, most governments preferred to handle their crises themselves, whether out of pride or unwillingness to invite the scrutiny of the United States. For better or worse, the Autobot choice of allies had deep political consequences, all of which had to be factored carefully into Cybertronian involvement. And then there was the matter of the security chief’s very valid misgivings -- the embassy was already depleted by half its forces. “Red Alert. Access cellular towers in the affected region; priority sort for the following terms: mina, minero, cueva, desplomarse--”

It took long seconds to crack the Anatel telecommunications grid, and then a blizzard of cell phone calls and video came flooding in: desperate human cries, soil-streaked upturned faces, the terribly liquid slide of tons of earth, mud, and rock.

“Protectobots, status?” Prowl vocalized.

Red Alert had already forwarded the necessary inquiries, both of the security mecha grasping at the same strands of scrapweed. “They report eight more joors to full containment.” Red Alert growled a little. “Human media are already encamped on site.”

Prowl spared a second to review the footage streaming across human networks, calculated the effect and value of goodwill, crunched the numbers. But both of the security mecha could guess at the outcome. A withdrawal now… would not look good.

Prowl vented heavily. Then he pinged both Springer and Optimus, and began preparations for another rescue mission.

 

 

 

**********

In the end, the Axalon went, loaded up with almost a full contingent of Wreckers and a cargo hold of heavy digging and mining equipment. It hadn’t been gone even two joors, however, before the entire chaotic situation was sent straight to the slagpit. Not by an attack--but by a single incoming comm.

Blaster took the call, carefully editing the flurry of background activity out of the embassy’s end of the transmission. If Starscream’s faction learned exactly how thinly the Autobots were now spread… Blaster started a call trace, even as he shrugged his plating into an easy welcoming smile. With Sky Spy in the air, it was doubtful that any of Starscream’s mecha had managed to go far without the Autobots’ knowledge. But then, this was Starscream they were dealing with: caution paid off.

“Thundercracker, my mech. What’s kicking?”

The blue Seeker leaned forward, scarlet optics glowing. He was someplace dim; perhaps some portion of the converted Iranian missile bunker. It wasn’t quiet wherever Thundercracker was -- upping the gain and filtering, Blaster detected clanging, mecha moving, the furiously rising screech of High Vosian dialects. “I have no time for your slow human natterings, Autobot,” the Seeker hissed.

“Sure thing,” Blaster said agreeably, switching languages. He rapidly flagged portions of the incoming call for more complete analysis, while simultaneously drawing up a convincing explanation for the Autobots’ movements around the globe. But how much had the Decepticons detected? “What can I do you for?”

Thundercracker eyed him suspiciously. “Don’t make me regret this, Autobot.” He cast a glance over his shoulderplates. “Starscream plans his... proactive retribution even now. He will be in the air within a breem. We fly with him. If you don’t want your precious humans damaged, I would advise--”

“Now, wait just a nano.” Blaster leaned forward. This was far worse than he’d feared. Was it the movement to Indonesia? Brazil? “How ‘bout telling me what exactly has ‘Screamer’s hip plating in a knot. We can discuss--”

“Discussion, that’s all you Autobots ever -- wait. You don’t know?” Thundercracker demanded, taken aback. His lip plates curled. “With all your sensors, your informants, you still don’t know? Primus below.” He snorted a laugh, though there was no humor in it. Something crashed in the background, a distant voice rising on a shriek of rage.

Thundercracker snarled, lowered his voice. “I will tell you fools once, and once only. Soundwave has been spotted. Geneva, these coordinates. We will not permit word of our arrangement, or the hatchlings, to reach Megatron.”

With a crackle, the transmission cut out.

No.

It was… Soundwave had been critically damaged; Blaster had reviewed the files himself. But it had been three or four Earth-years since the Decepticons had left Earth … that was long enough to repair a mech. What possible interest could Soundwave have in Switzerland? The coordinates were centered on an industrial facility, however, and… and…

The flow of data across the network intensified as Prowl dumped tasks in response to Blaster's uncharacteristic bolt of panic, pulling threads out of operations and back to higher processing. Blaster reached to reestablish the comm connection even as he checked on his scattered symbionts, sending wordless pings of _location/status/safe?_ to each one. He had to unclench his talons from the dented edge of the console.

There was no reply from the Decepticons. Blaster hadn’t really expected one.

But his cohort, at least, was in no danger … his symbionts were all reporting in, safe and secure. Soundwave might be on Earth, but at least he was half a world away -- too close by far, but not an immediate threat. Core protocols relaxed, subsiding back to lower-priority processes at that confirmation, and Blaster steadied himself, pulling together his scattered composure. Then he reached out, pinging Prowl, Red Alert, and Optimus, flagging it _urgent/danger/priority._

_//Gentlemecha--we have a problem.//_

 

 

 

***********

Riding on one broad shoulder, Flipsides scanned the rocky desert around them. The Giant’s long strides had taken them far from the embassy in no time at all, the big mech covering ground with single-minded determination, intent upon a song that, try as he might, Flipsides couldn’t manage to hear. And now, in the broad expanse of the Nevada desert, surrounded by sand and scrub and deeply fissured rock, Flipsides was starting to wonder if there truly was anything out here to find. They had to be fifteen miles from the mountain and the nearest road, at the very edge of the embassy grounds, over tough terrain where not even the humans explored on foot. What--

Then the Giant stopped. Paused, turning uncertainly, helm swivelling, as if he had lost the thread of his song. From his perch, Flipside scanned as far as he could, straining his sensory arrays to their limits. “Giant, I don’t--”

In the distance, the air shivered, heat shimmering up from the hot sand and rock. The distorted ripples of air seemed to twist, and part--and a dark figure stepped out, its edges warped by afterimages and hard to discern. Flipsides froze, optics wide, reflexively clamping down on his words, his comms, his very thoughts.

For waiting for them, at the end of the Giant’s song, was Soundwave.


	19. Chapter 19

Just one more quarter turn--there, excellent. Wheeljack sat back to admire the complex array, vocal indicators flashing yellow with pride. With this, the Axalon should have even better communications--once it got back from the rescue mission, of course. Which might not be for days. Perhaps he could calibrate the mechanisms now, before the Axalon came back?

Wheeljack gave that some thought. Hmm, if he misaligned the bipolar capacitance junction, the conventional current might be reversed, in which case the field modulation could result in a violent decompressive expansion of the tertiary arrays… which might be bad. But on the other hand, who knew, really? Nobody had tried it, so far as Wheeljack could recall, so he might as well! Humming happily, Wheeljack reached for his nested quark array modulator.

It wasn’t there. Hn. Wheeljack checked behind the cube of worktools -- no, not there either. Perhaps Ratchet had borrowed it? But if he pestered Ratchet before looking in other places… Wheeljack winced. And First Aid was still stuck in Wichita and unable to run interference. On the other hand, Flipsides might know and was much less likely to snap at Wheeljack besides! He sent out an idle ping to the mechkin but received no response. Perhaps Flipsides was too busy for it to register? With a vent, he heaved himself to his pedes and went in search of the little mech.

The big central warehouse was empty, except for the newly arrived supplies. Flipsides must still be out with the Giant; he hadn’t managed to load any of the crates on the grav-lock sled to put them away yet. Wheeljack was sympathetic -- tidying up was a big job for a little mech. Not that Wheeljack did much tidying himself, mind. Struck by curiosity, Wheeljack stirred a finger through the contents of one opened crate, examining the bits and pieces. All copper?

The packing slip caught his optic. Wheeljack bent to pick up the delicate little flakes of fine organic mesh. Oh my. Their regular supplier of scrap metal had sent all this, free of charge! Prowl would be most pleased; not that he seemed to mind day trading, really. A human had left a handwritten note at the bottom, scrawled so hastily that it was spattered with a little dripped ink. It read:

_For the con-_   
_Sideration of your hungry friend_

Wheeljack’s indicators flashed pink. Humans were simply so thoughtful. All but illiterate, sometimes, even in their own languages -- but thoughtful nevertheless.

 

 

  **********

 

  

The security center had gone silent, vocalized glyphs abandoned in favor of far-faster comms.

 _//Certainty of authentication?//_ Prowl, succinct as always.

 _//Authentication ongoing,//_ Blaster replied, opening up an administrative-level query window to enable Prowl to monitor the carrier’s datastreams. The mechanimetric software analyzed everything in transmissions: a mech’s tiny mannerisms, traces of shadow, the way sound echoed off of surfaces, all looking for the smallest of discrepancies. The call had been a short one and not particularly clear, but even still, Blaster had a reasonable chance of detecting fake transmissions as well as outright bluffs and lies. _//But certainty is eighty-two percent and rising. If Starscream is truly planning a preemptive strike….//_ Blaster tamped down on his worry and anger both, keeping the glyphs safely underneath the more important tactical concerns. _//But why would Soundwave be on Earth? In Geneva, of all places?//_

Red Alert’s frustration and fury coiled under his own glyphs. _//How is he here? How did he get past the energon detectors -- or past Sky Spy? We would have seen a cometary form and a ship would have--//_

 _//It is possible that he has been here, in hiding, for some time. But we must address those questions later,//_ Optimus said, the quiet power of his glyphs overriding his Security Chief’s rising panic. _//Are you certain of Starscream’s intentions, Blaster?//_ Optimus asked.

 _//No, but Thundercracker seemed to be. The whole base is dumping my connection requests, but if he is telling the truth--//_ Blaster pulled up the geolocating data, cross-referencing, drawing up a more complete map of nearby locales. Millions of nearby humans, as expected, but also, just north-west of the city… oh. Oh. _//--we can’t afford to ignore him. Soundwave’s location… it’s CERN. The coordinates are directly over the track of the large Hadron collider. Soundwave will have access to the humans’ global networks from the server centers nearby. If he can get in.//_

 _//He can’t have many troops with him,//_ Red Alert fumed, even as he began initiating Teletraan’s defensive measures. If the human networks became compromised while the localnet was so entwined with them, even the best Cybertronian technology wouldn’t keep Soundwave out of the embassy’s systems forever. _//If we let Starscream root him out--//_

Optimus tilted his helm back. _//A battle in that location could raze much of the city. We cannot allow the humans to be harmed, either deliberately or incidentally. We know nothing of Soundwave’s intentions, but Starscream obviously means to attack. It may be that I can open a dialogue--//_

 _//--if the fragger felt like talking, he’d have done it already,//_ Blaster objected, even as Red Alert added, fists clenched -- _//No. Optimus, my Prime -- please, please just … no. You cannot go.//_

 _//We still do not know how effective the current field scramblers are,//_ Prowl agreed. The Autobots had lost countless informants over the course of the war, and Soundwave was either directly or indirectly responsible for the lion’s share of those deaths. Developing defenses against Soundwave’s technopathy had been a major research objective -- but every time Prowl began to place faith in his projections, a new class of scramblers failed unexpectedly, and more lives were lost. It was circuit-wracking. Placing the Prime in physical proximity with Soundwave, particularly for any extended length of time…. _//If you go, we risk revealing not only the treaty with Starscream, but also every bit of Autobot intel you have, both on this world and off.//_

 _//And what if it’s a trap?//_ Red Alert added. _//Starscream could be trying to lure us out. How do they know something we don’t? They don’t have anywhere near the warning system that we have. Even if Soundwave had landed on Earth, why would he show himself? Why would he violate the Autobot-Decepticon Treaty in the first place?//_

 _//I agree with your concerns,//_ Optimus replied. _//We need to verify Soundwave’s presence for ourselves. But we also cannot sit idly by and allow the humans to be threatened by Starscream’s actions.//_ Optimus paused for a nanoklik, assessing priorities, probabilities.

 _//We must begin by alerting the local authorities. Blaster, contact NORAD and the Swiss authorities, along with NEST. Emphasize that efforts should focus on evacuating the area, not engaging any Cybertronian forces. Red Alert, double-check Sky Spy’s logs and all other Earth satellite surveillance. We need to verify Thundercracker’s information and track Starscream’s forces once they take to the air. Prowl, contact all of our forces outside the embassy -- they may need to abandon their rescue efforts and become reinforcements on a moment’s notice.//_ It was impossible to miss their Prime’s sorrow at the prospect.

 _//We’ll have a better lock on the Seekers in an hour,//_ Red Alert reported, forwarding data requests through satellites positioned in more geographically advantageous positions over the Middle East. Once Sky Spy crossed the area, they’d have visuals down to the micrometer, EM readings, everything. As it was, he could only estimate blocky masses, forwarding the data through Blaster and Prowl for better analysis. _//But they’re definitely moving to group outside the bunker. Possibly nine mecha -- likely the Command, Rainmaker, and Skykiller trines. Registering minimal activity around Astrotrain.//_

That meant none of the slower helos and no grounders. Prowl would have made the same call: close-quarters or extended battles with Soundwave were to be avoided at all costs. The Decepticons meant to strike hard and fast and be gone before anyone ever knew they were coming. It was a sound strategy, but with the weaponry at the command of nine Seekers -- including Sunstorm -- the collateral damage would be horrific.

Blaster was already complying with his Prime’s directives, forwarding calls across the planet, handling the communications on internal threads. _//As tenacious as humans can be, they won’t be able to handle both Soundwave and ‘Screamer’s crew if a battle threatens the city. And there are too many to evacuate in time.//_ The humans had not forgotten what had happened in Egypt and Chicago, and neither had the Autobots. _//We still have the Xantium -- it’s fast enough to beat the Seekers to Switzerland. I’m the most practiced with the field scrambler; I should be able to draw a fight, if there is one, away from population centers.//_ Not to mention that he’d be a lot more slagging comfortable with Soundwave in front of his faceplates, instead of waiting for a saber between his sensor panels. With his symbionts safe here, he could finally--

Optimus regarded his communications officer levely. _//I understand your eagerness, my friend. However, you also possess a great deal of sensitive information, including the terms of our treaty. In addition--//_

 _//He could leech those from Starscream or any of the other Decepticons the klik they show up,//_ Blaster said. His glyphs were flat, carefully controlled, even as his talons curled, digging grooves into the metal surface of his console.

 _//Provided that Starscream hasn’t developed his own scramblers, yes.//_ Optimus paused, his field deeply understanding. _//However, I believe we have a better option. Any deployed force must have had limited exposure to classified files. In addition, they will require enough firepower to keep the Seekers from indiscriminately opening fire -- long enough to negotiate a peaceful resolution.//_

 _//A mech like that can’t be negotia--//_ Blaster started.

 _//Who?//_ Prowl interrupted curtly, giving Blaster a moment to collect himself.

Optimus regarded them both. _//Bumblebee. He has already proven himself adept with our scrambler system. Mirage and several of our remaining frontliners, those most adept at dealing with Seekers, will accompany him.//_

Bumblebee. Despite his size, the infiltrator was an astoundingly fine warrior. He had done the nigh-impossible and taken Soundwave by surprise... but had also nearly killed Ravage and Laserbeak. All in defense of the humans, in completely justifiable circumstances, but still--! Blaster clenched his dentae, ruthlessly stifling his objections.

 _//They are,//_ said Prowl slowly, already seeding his predictive threads with plans and organization, _//the most effective choice. Red Alert, maintain surveillance. I can have the Xantium en route to Switzerland within the klik. Blaster, do you have the threads to -- good. Keep trying to raise Starscream’s forces.//_

As Prowl and Optimus turned their attention towards assembling the strike force, Red Alert’s silence resonated with his unease. This new operation would leave the embassy with a skeleton crew at best. If the Seekers managed to evade Sky Spy and struck the embassy instead, or if Astrotrain left Iran with dozens of heavy warframes aboard, or if … but what other choice did they have?

“There is no better trap than the one you can’t help but enter,” he muttered, digits flying over his console as he worked in tandem with the others.

At his own workstation, Blaster straightened a little, shaking his own fears away. He glanced over, absently registering the odd resonance to the glyphs. “True enough,” he said, talons already moving over his console, following orders, arranging lines of communication and coordinating analyses. “Where’d ya hear that one?”

Red Alert hunched his plating, already submerged in the complex datastreams. “I don’t remember,” he said, grimly ignoring the prickle of unease down his backstruts.

 

 

  *********

 

“Soundwave,” Flipsides whispered, small fingers clinging to the Giant’s plating, as if to ground himself. Despite his best efforts, fine tremors vibrated through his frame as he watched the dark figure approach.

The Giant glanced from his small companion to Soundwave’s distant form, obviously picking up on the mechkin’s anxiety. “Flip-sides … afraid?” he rumbled quietly.

“No … no, Giant,” Flipsides said, trying to reassure his friend. “I’m not afraid.” Soundwave was still walking towards them with slow, steady strides, no longer making an effort to hide. The big carrier had reclaimed his former colors, Flipsides realized. There was no sign of Soundwave’s former wounds; his plating was flawless, gleaming cobalt blue and silver-white instead of the undifferentiated gunmetal gray of his former Earthly disguise.

Flipsides stilled his shaking digits, reaching inward and quieting the instinctive, deep-coded urge to reach out to Blaster. “It’s--it’s going to be okay,” he said softly, not sure whether he was trying to convince the Giant or himself. “Let me down?”

“O-kay,” the Giant rumbled, his field rippling with slow waves of protective concern. He lifted one hand up to his small passenger. Flipsides clambered into it, and he carefully lowered the mechkin to the ground.

Soundwave was barely ten mechanometers away now. He had stopped, waiting in silence, that crimson visor tilting up to regard the Giant. Flipsides moved forward, closing the distance between them. With every step, the Decepticon spymaster seemed to loom ever larger, a sharp-edged and inscrutable figure.

It felt as if his spark was vibrating within his frame, emotions roiling, conflicting with deep-seated coding. Two mechanometers, one … distantly, Flipsides knew the Giant was still behind him, a protective bulwark. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem to matter. He sent a silent apology to his master, words he’d never been able to say aloud.

_Blaster … I’m so sorry._

He looked up, into crimson-visored optics. “Soundwave,” he managed to say.

“Flipsides,” the Decepticon spymaster said. “Soundwave: received your message.” Then he knelt, reaching out to stroke talons gently over the mechkin’s helm. His field gentled, radiating affection and pride. “Flipsides: has been greatly missed.”

“Master--” Flipsides reached up, clinging to those talons, shuttering his optics as he soaked in that familiar field. “I missed you too,” he whispered, hugging what he could reach. “All of you. I knew calling you was a risk, but--”

“Risk, entirely acceptable,” Soundwave said, digits smoothing carefully over Flipsides’ plating, checking for any sign of harm or poor maintenance, gathering the symbiont closer. “Soundwave: should not have left you so long.”

Flipsides had to restart his vocalizer twice. He stumbled forward, outstretched hands finding the glossy angles of Soundwave’s chestplates -- so broad he couldn’t even reach all the way across -- as the carrier bent a little for him. “N-no. I was ok. Safe. Never-- never in danger,” he said, hugging hard. Soundwave’s hardware had changed over the ages, but this… this was always the same, the deep cobalt resonance of the spark beneath the metal, all silverdust and lapis.

“Soundwave: should not have left you so long,” the big carrier simply repeated, hand cupped over Flipsides’ backplates, cradling.

A bleary comm filtered through the thick slabs of armor. _//Mmmph…. whazzit? Go ‘way, this one is mine….//_

Flipsides choked on a sound that was half a delighted laugh, half a sob. “Ratbat! He’s -- you’re all… but Ravage? I… I saw the reports…”

A sensory-spined muzzle nudged at his side. “The damage was not extensive, Flipsides. Soundwave retrieved me promptly.” Ravage materialized out of the big carrier’s shadow, taloned pedes silent on the rocky ground, more supple than any machine should rightly be.

“Not extens-- oh!” Flipsides onlined his optics, already reaching to trace anxious fingers over flawless black plating. Sleek angles had replaced bulk and bristling weaponry, new fast-fire tensors glinted silver. No sign remained of the terrible wound where Ravage had been torn apart. “Your plating-- you’re beautiful! B-but the extra armor--”

“Only slowed me,” Ravage supplied, tolerating the inspection with good grace. He turned his optics -- proper optics now, rather than his former cyclopean configuration -- to the waiting Giant. “Flipsides, this … is remarkable.” Every sensory spine hackled upwards to take in the resonance of that huge field, Ravage watched the massive mech before him.

Flipsides couldn’t quite keep the grin from his faceplates -- he’d never heard Ravage so at a loss for words. “Do--do you remember him? The others think he’s from Cybertron, but he’s so old, and there are no records ….” Flipsides resisted the urge to cling to Ravage’s solid frame, letting the bladeframe slip free to approach the Giant instead, step by careful step. He turned a worried gaze to Soundwave. “I probably shouldn’t have called you for this, but … he’s been lost for so long. He doesn’t even remember where his home is, and--”

“Ravage: wanted to come,” Soundwave said firmly, talons stroking reassuringly down the mechkin’s backplates. “Your discovery, too extraordinary to ignore.” He tilted his helm upwards, taking in the Giant as well. “Others, all in agreement. Risks, acceptable.”

“Everyone came?” Flipsides asked, torn between worry and hope. “Even--?”

 _//We are all here,//_ came Laserbeak’s familiar comm. _//If this world has taught us anything, it is that we must stand together, or we will fall separately.//_ Old pain and wry regret rippled underneath those elegantly woven glyphs.

_//Y-yeah n’ next time, *you* can be the one to ‘stand together’ in the s-ship n’ work these fraggin’ huge sub-bass speaker thingies. C-can we come out already?//_

_//Yeah, make Buzzbutt do this for once!//_

_// F-Flipsides!//_

_//Hey, Flipsides!//_

_//J-just wait till we get out, Rumble found this thing we gotta show ya--//_ Something clattered from atop the plateau -- somewhere around the place where Soundwave had emerged from the rippling air. A cloaked ship? Was that where the song the Giant had detected was coming from?

“Flip-sides have … friends?” the Giant rumbled.

“Yes -- yes friends,” Flipsides called up in English, hands wrapped around Soundwave’s talons. He switched to Cybertronian. “He’s very gentle. It’s just… something happened, I think, and he can’t remember. But it isn’t safe to be near him if… if there’s fighting.”

“Soundwave: acknowledges,” the big carrier said calmly, field deeply even, soothing.

“I remember,” Ravage breathed. He was almost in the Giant’s shadow, every micron of his frame tense with excitement. The Giant tilted his helm, regarding the much-smaller mech. “I remember them. But language… we never knew--”

 _//Hate to interrupt, Boss, but we’ve got movement again.//_ Buzzsaw this time, his glyphs prickling with urgency. Flipsides scanned the sky, but saw no sign of the flightframe--he must have been keeping watch on the embassy. _//Another ship, loaded and moving fast. Circling east now.//_

The visual attached to the comm was an afterthought, unnecessary for mecha enmeshed in a cohort bond. But Flipsides grasped at it, reveling in the speed and freedom of flight through another’s optics, the desert wheeling under dark wingtips. “That’s the Xantium!” he gasped, looking up to Soundwave’s crimson visor. “You can’t -- if they come here…”

Careful talon tips found bunched plating, gentling and smoothing the tense places. _//Autobots: occupied elsewhere for a time.//_ Flipsides could feel a channel open up, encompassing Ravage’s fierce fascination, Rumble and Frenzy’s eagerness, the whole of the cohort, even Flipsides himself. _//All, have one joor.//_

 

 

 

  **********

 

The rumble of the Xantium as it broke atmosphere vibrated through the operations center. The ship had seen extensive repairs over the last few years, and this was the first time its speed had truly been tested. With any luck, the quick jump into low Earth orbit and back down would prevent much of the strain on the ship’s newly repaired hull. Sturdy as it was, the Xantium had been built for space, after all, not for sustained atmospheric flight.

 _//Xantium en route to Switzerland,//_ Bumblebee reported in, his glyphs professionally focussed, with subdued undercurrents of anticipation/worry thrumming underneath. _//ETA to re-entry is two breems--so far, no sign of any Decepticons running orbital interference.//_

 _//Acknowledged.//_ The entire command staff was interlinked together through Prowl, who was coordinating all four operations with his usual facility, leaving Red Alert and Blaster to focus on local surveillance and communications. _//The Swiss Skyguide administration and their Air Force report no signs of Seeker incursion as of yet. The Federal Intelligence Service is also on full alert, but has not yet pinpointed Soundwave’s current whereabouts.//_

 _//CERN is on lockdown,//_ Blaster added. _//Not that it’s gonna do ‘em any good if Soundwave decides to get serious.//_

 _//Then we’ll just have to do our best to make sure he doesn’t get inside,//_ Bumblebee said. _//If necessary, we’ll also drop Bluestreak and Perceptor in before landing to set up and provide an incentive for the Seekers to play nice.//_

 _//Very well.//_ Optimus’ glyphs in the channel were resolute, the bedrock that kept them all stable and focused. _//Keep in touch, Bumblebee. I know I do not need to tell you how important this mission is to all of us.//_

 _//I understand, sir. We will do everything we can.//_ Bumblebee’s reply was immediate, the resonances unyielding in their determination. The frontliner was a veteran warframe, a deadly and experienced soldier. He would not fail his Prime.

Optimus and the others withdrew, turning their attention towards the other Autobot operations, conferring on current projections and resource availability. Bumblebee’s presence lingered in the tacnet, however, and a quiet ping nudged against Blaster’s firewalls for attention. Surprised, Blaster allowed the private comm through. _//Listen, before we lifted off, I…. I had Ratchet come to the Xantium with some sedative viral darts. If we can’t start a dialogue, if the Seekers show up, we’ll do what we can to put the symbionts in stasis. Can’t promise anything, but… I thought you’d want to know.//_

Blaster exvented heavily, feeling his substructure tremble. Soundwave had made a fatal error in coming here, to a planet full of hostile Seekers, far from the protection of Megatron’s regard. The Seekers would almost certainly destroy him. But there might be a chance, however slender, for the symbionts. _//Thank you, Bumblebee.//_

The comm center was busy for several long minutes. “I have visuals from Sky Spy,” Red Alert reported abruptly, some of the tension bleeding from his frame. “Seeker positioning confirmed. We’ve gotten there first-- current visuals show the Seekers just now entering European airspace.” A flicker of a command, and Teletraan obediently opened up the designated video feed, feeding it into both the command channel and the main holotank simultaneously.

The three trines were easy to spot, their colors bright against the blue dome of the sky, carving effortlessly through the choppy air over Spain. There was no mistaking them: their precision was far greater than any human pilots could maintain, wingtips so close to touching that Blaster doubted he’d be able to slip a talon in between, as if turbulence was a consideration fit only for lesser flyers.

Then something else caught Blaster’s attention, his transmission analysis software pinging him insistently, throwing red flags into his priority queues.

“Hold up a sec. Red, display frame 3241 for me, would ya?” After a fractional hesitation, the security chief complied. The Seekers still dominated the frame, but in the background, half-obscured by wispy clouds, a tiny township was visible, nestled among rolling fields and snow-streaked roads. Making a copy of the original frame, Blaster enhanced that tiny portion of the image, throwing a flurry of magnification and interpolation commands at it, narrowing down the focus. The image in the holotank shifted, blurred, then resolved--into the trailing edge of a vivid purple wingtip, the town behind it. And at the center of the town, details crisply displayed by Sky Spy, they could see a crowd of humans. Oblivious to the threat far above, they had gathered in the central plaza, milling about in the fading light.

A frisson of dismay vibrated through his neural net. “Guys--that’s the Sunday market in Manganeses de la Polvorosa,” Blaster said, vocalizer strained.

Prowl cast him an indecipherable glance. “Affirmative.” He tilted his helm, sending a wordless glyph of inquiry over their channel. “Today is Sunday in that regi--”

“I know.” Blaster ground out, blunted digits curling into fists. “But it’s also the twenty-sixth. The town doesn’t hold the usual market today--they have a local religious festival instead.” It was an extremely odd, little-known holiday, during which a live goat was traditionally flung from a particular belltower. If Blaster hadn't learned to fully appreciate the many idiosyncrasies of the human species, he might have dismissed the festival as fake. And if so, he might have…. if he wanted to falsify the presence of the Seekers...

Feeling the first trickle of alarm spark over his plating, Blaster queried Sky Spy directly, demanding timestamps, more footage. “Red, Prowl, I need cross-authentication. Teletraan, deconstruct the creation codes on these files, look for a series of discrepancies in this pattern--”

A new priority comm jangled for their attention, cutting through the flurry of activity. Blaster reflexively opened the channel, even as he did a double-take at the Decepticon origination codes. The image sprang to life in a second holotank, revealing a supremely irritated Thundercracker.

The blue Seeker glared at them all impartially. “What the frag is going on, Prime?”

Optimus stepped into view, his field echoing puzzlement and concern. “Thundercracker? We are responding as swiftly--”

“Responding? Your team should have been here three joors ago!” Thundercracker snapped, wings flicking upwards in annoyance. Yellow Iranian dust swirled across the stony plateau behind him. Tiny hatchling claws poked up into the visual field, trying to climb farther up the Seeker’s leg as he paced. “These expeditions were *your* idea, Autobot. We’re not a fragging taximech service! If your slagging dirtgrubbers can’t be bothered to show up, then--”

“Thundercracker, I--” Optimus hesitated, his field flaring with consternation and dismay, obviously unsure how much to say. “I do not know what happened. We are en route--”

“Don’t waste my time with your word games, Prime.” Thundercracker leaned forward, dentae bared, the threatening effect tarnished only slightly by a chittering squawk from off to one side as two unseen hatchlings brawled. “Consider this a warning. If your groundpounders miss another sampling run, they can dirty the insides of *your* shuttleformer on their next trip to space.” With a hiss, the comm clicked off.

On the main holotank, three trines of Seekers still carved their way towards Switzerland, malevolent intent in every sweeping line.

In the stopped-spark silence of Teletraan’s hub, Springer’s ping seemed to echo. “-ello? Anybody there?” The Wrecker’s voice seemed tinny as Teletraan forwarded it through the room’s speakers. “We’ve been overflying the location for a breem, and we can’t find this mining collapse. Could you check our coordin--”

In a rolling, unstoppable cascade, communications went down. Entire banks of lights winked dark across the cobbled-together consoles. The background hum of Teletraan’s uplinks and data relays whirred, and then fell silent, fans idling as the load on the hardware vanished.

“Slag--Optimus, we’ve been had!,” Red Alert snarled, lunging for his terminal. Sky Spy responded with nothing but static. Cursing in a low, violent hiss, Red Alert threw open the official passes and backdoor access lines in the humans’ geosynchronous satellites -- Echostar, Americom-7, Ciel-2, all of Sky Spy’s companions at the edge of space -- his own receivers and transmitters heating as he forwarded the flurry of commands.

None of the satellites answered.

Carrier coding rose to the fore, gripping him around the spark. Blaster reached out, frantically querying his cohort, vibrating with tension over the endless long nanokliks it took for his symbionts to reply. Ramhorn, Eject, Rewind, Steeljaw … all of them reported in, safe and close, responding to their carrier’s call. All but one.

“Blaster?” Red Alert’s helm snapped around as the communications officer turned, abandoning his post for the first time in two days. “What--where are you going?”

The carrier’s optics were nearly white with rage. “It’s Soundwave,” he growled, flat and low, glyphs violently bitten off. “He has him. Soundwave has Flipsides.” The carrier hit the door at a run, ignoring Red’s protests, Optimus calling his name.

“Are you sure--?”

“Blaster, wait!”

 

 

  **********

 

 

“Haha, we got you now!”

“Oh no, wait, I don’t--” Flipsides fell back under the assault, tumbling underneath Rumble and Frenzy’s combined weight. “Guys!”

“We’ve been w-waitin’ long enough. You’ve been gone *forever*, ‘Sides,” Frenzy retorted, pulling the other mechkin into a rough embrace that looked more like a headlock than a hug.

“Yeah! So you’re not gettin’ away from us now, bro. Not until we do some *serious* memory-shares. You gotta show us everythin’ you’ve been up to!” Rumble added, poking at Flipsides’ Autobot insignia to reinforce his point. “Betcha got all sorts of great stories, huh?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“Rumble. Frenzy.” Soundwave’s talons and two of his primary cables were cupped around all three mechkin, talons stroking over Flipsides’ plating with gentle care. His glyphs, however, were stern, unyielding. “Time together, short. This mission, important. Flipsides’ safety, even more so.”

“Booooossss ….” Rumble and Frenzy chorused together, looking pleadingly up at their carrier.

“Not even one little memory? What if we shared sumthin’? Like that time we kicked aft on Canaris Four?”

“Y-yeah! Or what about the time we poured glue into Ramjet’s intakes? That w-was classic!”

Soundwave shook his helm. “Blaster: likely to notice timestamps, firewall penetration. Concealing new transfers, difficult and time consuming.” He glanced down at Flipsides, whose happiness had visibly dimmed at the mention of his current master. “Soundwave: wishes it were otherwise,” he told the tangle of mechkin.

“Me too,” Flipsides said quietly, tilting his helm towards Soundwave’s stroking talons, holding Rumble and Frenzy a little more tightly.

“F-fine,” Frenzy grumped, then brightened. “H-hey, you gotta see this, where’d ya put it--”

“Oomph, you slagger! Getchyer elbow outta my--”

“D-don’t be such a fragging shimbeater--”

Deft talons separated the two mechkin just enough to discourage another fight. “I found it! Haha!”

“H-here! We found it, yer gonna like it! Let him see, d-don’t hang onto it like that--”

“Yer gonna break it, you smelt-fisted lump--”

Flipsides blinked down as the two mechkin fumbled something into his hands. It looked like a small silver cube, a little tarnished and acid-worn on one side. Frenzy triumphantly depressed the tiny raised mark on the top, and the box transformed like oragami, the sides folding out, lifting up, exposing cut crystal flightplates, an elegant little wedge-shaped helm. Step by step, the box became a glass lilith bird, fragile and tiny, perfect. The wings stirred, the finely articulated neck bowing in response to the smallest breeze. There were no circuits or wiring, every part machined and balanced with such care that none were needed. Flipsides sucked in a ventilation, optics spiralled wide. “H-how--” A piece of art as delicate as this… how could it have survived? “I mean, Cybertron is--”

“Y-yeah, it’s a real mess. We was b-breakin up some old girders, right, and some of that plaster stuff caved in, n’ Scavenger spotted it but we j-jumped him and pounded him real good and then--”

“You guys … you’re really rebuilding,” Flipsides marvelled, smiling gently. He looked up, finding Soundwave’s inscrutable red visor, and past him Ravage, who sat before the kneeling Giant, bladed tail curling neatly around his pedes. Flipsides wondered just how old the archives that Ravage was drawing upon really were. How many millions of vorn had it been since anyone had need of them? Too many, certainly -- far too many.

“You speak English--but not Cybertronian?” Ravage marvelled, helm tilted back to meet the Giant’s white optics. The ebony bladeframe seemed oblivious to the massive difference in their sizes, his field suffused with wonder. “I do not recall any--”

“I speak,” the Giant replied, unfazed by the questions. “En-glish words … simple. I learn fast. Goo-gle help find many pictures.”

“A visual lexicon… astounding,” Ravage breathed. “To have survived for so long, and travelled so far, all the way to this backwater planet. But tell me--”

Tracing the Giant’s origins, pulling them from the oblivion of antiquity, was a chancy thing, even with time on their side. But if anyone could manage the feat in a joor, Ravage could.

Flipsides had never doubted the necessity of his mission, or that Soundwave had cared for him, even as he sent him away. But he had been away from them for so long … and a tiny part of him had been afraid that they might have changed, might have grown as ruthless and savage as other mecha believed them to be. But Ravage, Soundwave, all of them--they were still the mecha he remembered. As well as Flipsides fit in with Blaster and Ramhorn and the rest of the cohort… he fit here too, as easily as if he’d never left. Flipsides felt his spark hitch, gently cradling the delicate bird in his hands as he listened to Rumble and Frenzy’s tales: all rebuilding and brawling by turns.

But then, as if summoned by Flipsides’ thoughts, an urgent call sliced through the little mech’s priority queues. His happiness vanished in an instant, burned away by his master’s call. “Soundwave,” he whispered, small, blunted fingers trembling around the crystal sculpture. “Blaster’s calling me. He’s--”

Flipsides hadn’t done anything to give away their location, but that wouldn’t stop the other mech. Blaster was his carrier. The bond between them made it impossible for him to hide --and even if he could, the Giant’s trail was easy to follow. “He’s angry and--and scared. He’s coming for me,” he whispered, looking up into Soundwave’s red-visored optics. “I--I think he knows you’re here, Soundwave.”

Buzzsaw’s comm came only moments later, his glyphs layered with urgent modifiers. _//Boss, Blaster’s on the move. The Autobots must have figured out our little distraction--the Prime and a bunch of the others are headed toward you, and they’re moving fast.//_

Soundwave lifted his helm, taking in the information. As Flipsides watched, the big carrier’s field focused, coiling like a razorsnake, charged with intent. Between one moment and the next, Soundwave changed, transforming from an indulgent carrier into something else … something far more dangerous.

 _//Understood,//_ came the simple reply. _//Soundwave: will be ready.//_

 

 

***********

 

Blaster tore across the desert, ignoring the rattle of rocks and debris as they bounced against his undercarriage, whipped across his sides. He could still hear the others’ calls--insistent comm-pings that demanded attention--but even Optimus’ priority flags were shoved away, made secondary to the demands of his core coding. Instead every thread of his attention was caught up in the tenuous link he followed, _worry/fear/protective imperatives_ beating through him like human drums, a rhythmic litany of _Flipsides Flipsides Flipsides_ he knew the mechkin couldn’t hear. That Soundwave wouldn’t let him hear.

Flipsides probably hadn’t even known the other carrier was there, not until it was too late. If Soundwave had gotten his talons on him, somehow separated him from the Giant’s protection--the Decepticon had the energon of countless Chroniclers on his talons, carrier and symbiont alike. What was one more death to that monster?

The Giant’s trail was unmistakable; those broad pedes had cratered the sandy earth, leaving evidence of his passing in crushed stone and vegetation that even a sensor-blinded mech couldn’t miss. Blaster skidded down a gully, rocking dangerously on two wheels, then charged up the other side. His symbionts’ _worry/concern/love_ pushed him forward, spurring him on. He’d refused to allow them to come, leaving them behind, within the safe confines of the embassy. It was beyond risky to engage Soundwave without backup, he knew. Blaster could feel their insistent pleas even now- _//Flipsides needs us boss master let us help let us come we’ll fight--!//_ -but he had ordered them to stay. He needed them to be safe. Soundwave was too dangerous. If he managed to save Flipsides, only to lose one of the others the way he’d lost Stripes, he’d …

...he would come undone. He knew it, felt it in the terror that ate at his circuits -- the maddening, helpless fear of standing alone where all the others had fallen. The web of Cybertronian history was a tattered thing now, the few remaining symbionts a mere remnant of a past rich beyond comprehension. To lose another, to unwind the skein of his very purpose…. An energon detector registered with a muted, disabled chirp. He could see the device as he flashed by, the coils of wiring dragged up from the device’s hiding place and rent open on the sand. If they did the same to Flipsides….

Broken rows of stone teeth loomed up before him; Blaster transformed at a run, darting around the sandstone spires. He leapt another ravine, pedes skidding in shale, folding down again onto four wheels for a burst of speed.

Blaster dimly registered the tacnet’s insistent presence, knew that Optimus, Prowl, and the others weren’t far behind. He hoped they were in time--if only they had any fliers left! But Soundwave had laid his diversions perfectly, and there wasn’t a single airframe left at the embassy. Just grounders, and Blaster cursed his own bulky alt even as he pushed his engine to the limit, ignoring redlined systems, pouring on every ounce of speed he could muster.

The eroded canyon opened up around him, wind whipping fine sand across his plating. The slopes were more gradual here, leading up to a higher plateau, and the Giant’s mass popped up on proximity sensors, so much living metal impossible to mistake. Engines whining, Blaster cut close around an outcropping. He was almost on top of the signal now, so close--there!

Flipsides tottered unsteadily next to a towering leg, tiny, not even as tall as the Giant’s heavy pede. The little mechkin’s plating was scuffed and sandy. Tracks, large and small, pocked the open area before them, the low vegetation was torn and packed down.

Blaster skidded to a stop. For between Blaster and the terrified mechkin... stood Soundwave.

Flanked by his two little mechkin thugs, the other carrier turned away from Flipsides, towards the new threat. He had been meticulously repaired, plating now smooth and glossy, as dark as Blaster’s was bright. For all his imposing bulk -- those outsized docks a mockery of a Chronicler’s purpose -- his lines were malevolently sleek, all angled threat and brutal edges, folded sensor panels casting long, daggered shadows upon the earth.

“Get away from him!” Blaster transformed, cables unfurling and weapons at the ready, torn between fury and relief. Thank Primus--he’d been fast enough, hadn’t been too late. But that could all change in a sparkbeat. “I swear by the Allspark, if you’ve hurt him--” Now that he was this close, he could feel Flipsides’ fear, the mechkin’s panic resonating along their bond.

“Oh yeah? Try it, I dare ya!” Rumble shouted pugnaciously, little fists already formed into piledrivers. “Touch the boss and you’ll regret it, boombox!”

Soundwave said nothing, unreadable behind his battlemask. Instead the Decepticon took a single step forward, uncoiling his own primaries. The shining, segmented cables whiplashed outwards, bladed tips unfolding, edges glittering in the unrelenting light. The dense, weaving halo poised, a carrier’s core-coded threat, a display meant to cow into submission. The air seemed to thicken, to warp around the edges, an indefinable pressure bearing down on his very thoughts.

“Master--” Flipsides’ fear snapped the world back into focus. “Master, please--!”

HIS symbiont. Blaster lunged forward with an inarticulate roar, lashing out at the mech separating him from his symbiont. He didn’t dare risk a shot, not so close to Flipsides and the Giant, but that didn’t mean he was weaponless. Let Soundwave try to play mind games when he had Blaster’s blades carving through his armor! Two primaries whiplashed outward, stabbing at armor joins with lethal precision, only to be intercepted by Soundwave’s own cables with the squeal of metal on metal. Snarling, Blaster refused to let up, throwing his considerable weight into the other carrier, doing his best to body-block him into the ground--

\--but Soundwave had already stepped backwards, turning. More primaries whipped out, tangling with his own, barbs catching, tearing deep as Soundwave used Blaster’s own momentum against him. Blaster hit the ground in an awkward sprawl, the crash of the impact vibrating through his frame. Snarling, he rolled to his pedes, talons at the ready. He’d tear the other carrier apart if he had to, crack open that armored chassis and snuff that monstrous spark with his own hands--!

 _//What the -- slaggit, Blaster! Stand down! What the slag do ya think you’re doing!?//_ Jazz’s comm was a distant irritant, less than nothing against Blaster’s whipcrack rage as he charged. Bladed cables whipped against cobalt armor, screee-hissed as Soundwave parried, twisted. The two mecha circled each other, cables a dancing weave of silver murder around them. The air seemed to thicken, that terrible pressure bearing down on Blaster’s processors…. And then an opening -- Blaster slammed forward, landing a vicious uppercut to Soundwave’s battlemask. Both mecha went down in a thrashing tangle of piercing cables, talons gouging armor both bright and dark.

“Get offa him, you slagger!”

The two mechkin piled into the fight, hurling mad punches with the force of sledgehammers. One hit proved damnably accurate, slamming downwards and cracking one of Blaster’s wrist components. His talons slipped with a grinding screech -- and Soundwave jackknifed upwards, kneejoint and fist slamming into his opponent’s frame. For a single nanosecond, Blaster registered empty air, his talons spasming around nothing … and then he hit the sand, rolling over and over in a flurry of dust and debris.

Blaster fetched up hard against the side of the Giant’s pede, already scrabbling to his pedes, ready to launch a counterstrike -- then small hands found his gouged and dented plating. Carrier protocols kicked in, seizing his battle systems and freezing him in place. “Please, please -- don’t!” Flipsides cried desperately, even as Blaster hunched to shelter him. Flipsides was with him again, safe and unharmed. He had to get his symbiont away before…. “Master, please--!”

But there was no incoming assault. Soundwave had climbed to his pedes, cables still poised in unmistakable challenge, but what…. ?

“No fight-ing,” The Giant rumbled. He knelt, his simple faceplates folded into as much of a frown as he could manage as he looked down at the dust-streaked mecha at his pedes. And behind them all, growing louder by the second, came the roar of multiple engines.

Optimus surmounted the rise first, the heavy rumble of his alt changing in pitch as he transformed, rising up to full imposing height, armor gleaming and brilliant in the diamond-edged light. Soundwave half-turned, sizing up this new threat, and Blaster seized the opportunity, sweeping Flipsides up and out of harm’s way. Docking was not an option no matter how much he wished otherwise; hard-earned experience had taught him that baring his vulnerable docks in the middle of a potential firefight was not a smart thing to do. But at least now he could protect Flipsides--with his own frame, if necessary.

“Soundwave.” Optimus’ voice resonated through the canyon as their Prime stepped forward, plasma cannon transformed and at the ready. “Your presence here on Earth is a violation of the Autobot-Decepticon Treaty, and you are surrounded. Surrender, or we will be forced to open fire.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know not what an unimaginable treasure you have in him, do you?” Ravage -- Ravage himself -- prowled past Blaster with nothing more than a single, sidelong glance, the sharp blades of his outer armor shifting in eerie silence. Jazz’s sweeps, Wheeljack’s scouting ... none of them had detected the cybercat. Steeljaw was large for a bladeframe; Ravage was bigger still, less heavily built but both taller and longer, and supple in a way that seemed nearly organic.

“Ha! You ain’t g-gonna shoot, not when--” Frenzy started, grinding one fist into the other -- then fell abruptly silent, glancing up at Soundwave as some communication passed between them.

Soundwave studied the Prime. The silence stretched, thick enough to cut, edged by the faint hiss of grains of sand over armored plating. Silver primaries coiled, glittering blades tracing lazy serpentine curves through the air, casting tiger-striped shadows over Soundwave’s dark plating.

Allowing Soundwave this close to Optimus--Blaster could feel his force multipliers practically vibrating with charge. The Autobot command staff had been fitted with field scramblers for hundreds of vorn, but were they still effective? And by how much? If Soundwave were capable of getting through Blaster’s defenses, the Autobot carrier would likely be incapacitated -- or extinguished -- already. So perhaps Optimus was safe from technopathic tampering, at least for now.

Still, Blaster had trusted earlier versions of the scramblers before, and been deceived. When it came to Soundwave, nothing -- _nothing_ \-- was ever certain. The bigger carrier’s field gave nothing away, eerily still.

 _//You two doin’ ok over there, Blaster?//_ Jazz asked, ghosting through the shadows with agile grace. The hum of his scans was a background murmur through the tacnet as he searched for any unpleasant surprises -- either traps or soldiers -- Soundwave might have brought along.

 _//...Yeah,//_ Blaster confirmed, stroking talons over Flipsides’ helm as the mechkin clung to him. The little frame trembled and the symbiont’s optics were still wide with fear, but despite the scuffs and sand, the mechkin seemed to have suffered no damage. He angled Flipsides back a little, further behind the Giant’s bent knee. _//Don’t you worry, ‘Sides. We’re gonna get you out of this. Did he hurt you?//_

Flipsides looked up, little hands shaking. He shook his helm.

 _//The last time Soundwave surrendered, he engineered the downfall of Altair IV and subverted the system’s orbiting battlestation. From the secure prison transport.//_ Prowl grimly reminded them as he transformed beside Optimus, taking up a position several paces to the side, acid pellet gun primed and ready. _//The resulting casualties included at least seventeen Autobots and thousands of natives.//_ The tacnet hummed in the background of Blaster’s thoughts, reporting positions, battle readiness--Wheeljack and Que were circling wide, sensors alert for any other hidden troops, even as they moved to flank Soundwave from the other side.

 _//It does not matter. We cannot simply kill Soundwave out of hand. Our treaty with Megatron is the best chance at a lasting peace we’ve had for more than a hundred thousand vorn. I will not allow the actions of a single mech--even one as dangerous as Soundwave--to destroy that fragile balance. Nothing less than the fate of our race is at stake.//_ Optimus’ reply was unyielding, his focus never wavering. _//Wheeljack--if it comes to battle, get Flipsides and the Giant away, if you can.//_ Aloud, he repeated, “Soundwave. Surrender, or we will open fire.”

Soundwave tilted his helm incrementally. Crimson-visored optics surveyed the Autobots arrayed around him.

“Negative.” Soundwave’s metallic monotone did not falter. “Soundwave: will not surrender.”

Rumble made a particularly rude popping sound. “Yeah! We saw whatcha all did to Demolishor and Ravage. Even lettin’ the local squishies take trophies--tearin’ ‘bots apart and puttin ‘em on display. You’re glitched, Autoaft, if you think we’re gonna surrender ta *you*!”

Optimus didn’t flinch under the accusation, though Blaster could feel the wash of pain and regret, quickly stifled, that flickered through his field. “Mistakes have been made -- by all of us,” he said evenly. “Nevertheless, your presence on Earth is in clear violation of the terms of our agreement with Megatron. You have two choices, Soundwave. You and your cohort may surrender, and you will be treated fairly, as prisoners of war. Or you may refuse, and we will use whatever means necessary to take you into custody.”

Soundwave’s hidden faceplates gave nothing away … but a subtle curl of sardonic amusement whispered through that coiled field. Blaster tensed, feeling the others’ tension ratchet up as well.

“Optimus, incorrect.” That dark monotone gained a harder edge. “Offered choices, invalid. Autobots: will stand down. Consequences of any attack: will fall upon the humans you protect.”

The tips of Prowl’s doorwings twitched, a small, subtle jerk.

“Comin’ right out and threatenin’ the locals now, Sounders? Never would’a thought you’d stoop to that.” Jazz eeled out from between two sandstone slabs. His frame was loose, his posture relaxed, gait sauntering, hands empty. This tactic was among the saboteur’s deadliest, in Blaster’s opinion. Countless mecha had let the slim bot get just a little too close, let the easy banter throw them off their guard, nettle them into snapping back a reply. Those opponents rarely even saw the disabling blow coming. Jazz might not be a warframe, but he enframed a kind of lethal precision that few warframes could ever hope to match. Jazz could -- and would -- take a mech apart faster than a swarm of sharkticons, given the barest shadow of an opportunity.

But Soundwave had seen this game play out before -- had played it himself, when caught outside the web of his own machinations. The dark daggers of his sensor panels shifted subtly, angling, tracking, and Blaster could feel the subtle press of Soundwave’s technopathy like a vibration in the air -- a palpable reminder of what the big carrier might still be able to do to them, even outnumbered and outgunned. As the saboteur began to ease just one step closer, Soundwave spoke. “Jazz, thinks too small,” he observed.

“Y-yeah -- locals, pbffft.” Frenzy spat a dismissive blat of static as he jabbed a transformed pile-driver fist in Jazz’s direction, circling to keep the saboteur always in view. “More like the whole fraggin’ civilization, if you c-can even call it that.”

Optimus froze, even as a flurry of queries flooded the tacnet as Prowl and Red Alert worked in tandem, trying to decipher the nature of Soundwave’s threat. Had he hacked the humans’ nuclear codes? Planted more agents within their fractured governments to spark new conflicts? But most of those possibilities were uncertain, slow to implement or easy to intercept. Was Soundwave’s confidence a bluff, or something far more dangerous?

Blaster bristled, the tips of his bladed cables vibrating with frustrated fury. “You’re lying! You couldn’t possibly--”

“Human technology, derived from Cybertronian,” Soundwave stated flatly, steamrolling over Blaster’s indignation. The Autobot carrier hesitated, caught off-guard by the apparent non sequitur.

Rumble snorted. “Yeah, alla it stolen from Megatron n’ the Allspark. Think about it--the squishies had ‘im for more n' a vorn before you slaggers ever showed up.”

“And we’ve b-been here ever since the Ark hit that big-aft moon,” Frenzy snorted. “Ya really think we wouldn’t be r-ready for ya?”

Prowl’s field fritzed around the edges, reflecting his consternation. “Half a vorn,” he murmured.

The truth behind the mechkins’ words was undeniable, framing a picture that Blaster suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted to see. The Autobots had known that Soundwave had been on Earth far longer than most--since the beginning of the humans’ Information Age. But in the wake of the Fallen, the Sun Harvester, of Megatron and Sentinel, all of them still reeling from betrayals and unlikely alliances … they just hadn’t thought about what that might truly *mean*.

Five decades of manipulation, of slow, thorough web-weaving. Five decades of influence gained and leveraged over an unsuspecting planet. Five decades….

“The slaggers might’ve hid Megatron so’s we couldn’t find him, but they couldn’t hide the tech they were pullin’ outta him.” Rumble growled. “An’ they latched right on to any little hints that came along, too, tryin’ ta make their new toys work better. Tell ‘em how to build a c-gate, and they’ll follow yer plans down to the nanometer, an’ then claim it was their idea all along.”

“Follow yer plans… even to the b-back doors n’ kill-switches,” Frenzy laughed. "Built inta the hardware, all of it."

“Integrated circuits, lasers, COBOL, FORTRAN, squishie spaceflight, supercomputers, microprocessors, ethernet, internet, missile targeting--” Rumble chanted gleefully.

“Ain’t no system the humans have th-that Soundwave don’t have a free pass inta. Get it? The boss c-can shut everything down or set it off, any fraggin’ time he wants, with just one word. H-hack the planet!” Frenzy finished triumphantly.

Optimus took a step backwards, taken off-guard by the magnitude of the threat. Airplanes in flight, hospitals overflowing with the injured, financial markets, power grids, dams that held back floods… all of them were networked, through and through. Every human system on the planet depended on electrical cross-talk -- except, perhaps, for a bare handful of very old or very isolated military research facilities, such as the one in which Megatron had been contained. “The humans--they have firewalls, encryptions …” he stopped even before Soundwave could reply, before anyone could point out the obvious.

Technopath.

A Cybertronian technopath, on a planet full of very simple, Cybertronian-based technology, none of which had been hardened against Soundwave. More than that, technology that had been built to be exploitable, uniquely vulnerable to technopathy. If there was any truth at all to Soundwave’s threat, the humans’ current defenses, even reinforced by Teletraan, didn’t stand a chance.

 _//Red Alert, report status on embassy’s EM burst missiles --//_ Prowl started, desperately grasping at strands of scrapweed. A sufficiently powerful strike could temporarily cripple every mech for a mile radius, but it would also keep any orders Soundwave issued from getting out.

Amusement flickered at the perimeter of the cobalt carrier’s field. “Relays, kill-codes, all reset upon arrival: will trigger without constant contact.” Soundwave tilted his helm, the upswept, bladed edges catching the sharp light. “Repeat: assaulting this cohort, unwise.”

Had Soundwave read Prowl’s intentions? Was he listening even now to their tacnet, or was that merely a lucky guess? Blaster’s blunted talons curled into fists as he fought the deep-coded urge to get Flipsides out, hide him somewhere safe. _//He’s bluffing! If he could do that, then he could’ve found Megatron before we--//_

Jazz’s ready stance never faltered, but his visor narrowed fractionally. _//The humans were keeping the Allspark near Megatron, in the same isolated facility. Accordin’ to Bumblebee, there was almost nothin’ more advanced down there than incandescent bulbs and rotary telephones. Anythin’ more complex would’ve been animated sooner or later.//_ Animated sparkless in the absence of cybertronium, no more than drones, frenzied mad parodies of true life. But animated all the same.

Optimus straightened slowly, squaring his frame. “You would spread destruction across an entire planet, cause the death of millions of innocent humans--all just to protect yourself from the consequences of your actions?” There was anger underneath those words, the slow build of a Prime’s righteous rage. “Did you also cause the disasters that forced us to send the bulk of our forces away?”

“Negative.” Soundwave’s answer was flat and inflectionless, without fear or pride. If the Decepticon was intimidated, it did not show. “Soundwave, exploited natural disruptions, misdirection. Causing disasters: unnecessary.” Cables retracted, blades folding away as the silver primaries coiled back into Soundwave’s frame. Their disappearance should have made the big carrier seem less threatening. Somehow, it didn’t.

“So far,” Rumble interjected darkly.

“Preservation of human civilization: of no concern. Human welfare, inconsequential.” The cobalt carrier considered the mecha before him. “Soundwave: has larger concerns.”

“Larger concerns? Like what?” Prowl demanded, grim. Soundwave was a mech capable of monumental evil; his plots all too often spanned galaxies and megavorns. His reasons were rarely anything short of labyrinthine, when they could be fathomed at all… but he rarely taunted his foes. No, if Soundwave had truly shown his hand -- and that was a risky assumption -- then there was a 98.3% chance it was because he wanted something. Either something for Megatron, or, less likely, for Soundwave himself. Prowl refrained from glancing at Blaster or the mechkin he clutched. If Soundwave demanded Flipsides….

Absorbing Prowl’s projections, Optimus was silent for several long moments, unwillingly contemplating his brother’s possible treachery. If Megatron had approved Soundwave’s incursion, had endorsed this threat to everything the Autobots protected on this planet …. It would not be the first time his brother had sundered a treaty, but that fact made each successive betrayal no easier to bear. “Why have you come? Why without warning? What would possibly make Megatron risk a violation of the treaty?”

Soundwave did not hesitate, obviously expecting the questions. “Soundwave: tasked with locating Decepticon defectors.”

The Autobots tensed, and Rumble snorted. “Yeah, that wasn’t hard. Seekers ain’t exactly subtle. An’ then when we got here, whaddaya know? We found somethin’ even bigger.” Rumble smirked.

Soundwave glanced up at the Giant. “Human transmissions, indiscreet,” he confirmed.

Blaster took the precaution of locking his kneejoints before shock could make him wobble embarrassingly. Or was it relief? If Soundwave was telling the truth … that meant he wasn’t after Flipsides, except perhaps as a target of opportunity. Unless this was just another diversion.

 _//Why would Soundwave be interested in the Giant?//_ Jazz asked, uneasy. The Autobots had done their best to keep the Giant under wraps, not wanting him to become embroiled in their endless war. But the big mech’s sheer size had made it nearly impossible to keep him out of view of the humans’ cameras, and his few public appearances had only made it worse. The Rockwell Incident might still be classified, but the older residents of Rockwell didn’t give a damn about that, and when the pictures of ‘their’ Giant had started appearing in blogs and news sites, they hadn’t been shy about reclaiming their hero.

 _//Perhaps he believes the Giant would be of interest to Megatron,//_ Prowl stated ominously. In the distance, he could hear the rumble of engines--Earth-based ones. NEST had finally mobilized; reinforcements were likely to arrive within a breem. Prowl spared a tertiary thread to send instructions to Colonel Lennox, directing the bulk of the human forces to set up an outside perimeter.

Blaster couldn’t prevent a flicker of chagrin, one he knew was shared by Jazz and Red Alert. By last count, the Giant had at least one unofficial fan club, several websites dedicated solely to sightings of him--including one bent on documenting the ‘vast alien conspiracy’ that he somehow represented--and an ever-shifting number of fans around the world. Japan, especially, had been fascinated by the big mech, sending multiple invitations for ‘Giant Roboto’ to come and visit. Even if the Autobots had thought to conceal the big mech’s presence from Megatron, it was unlikely that they would have succeeded for long.

Optimus Prime shook his helm slowly. “I will no more sacrifice a single life to the Decepticons than I will a billion. The Giant is a friend, and no threat to the Decepticons. I have vowed to protect him, and I will keep that promise.”

“Optimus: misconstrues nature of interest.” The cobalt carrier turned back to face the angry Prime. “Soundwave: uninterested in removing Giant from Earth. Of greater relevance: his arrival here from Cybertron.”

Blaster sucked in a harsh ventilation. The Giant’s origins, at least, had not been widely disseminated. How could Soundwave know …?

Something dark crossed the farthest corner of his visual field, so quietly that for an instant, Blaster’s processors flagged it as nothing more than a shadow.

Then the shadow spoke. “You do not know what an unimaginable treasure you have in him, do you?” Ravage -- Ravage himself -- prowled past Blaster with nothing more than a single, sidelong glance, the sharp blades of his outer armor shifting in eerie silence. Jazz’s sweeps, Wheeljack’s scouting ... none of them had detected the cybercat. Steeljaw was large for a bladeframe; Ravage was bigger still, less heavily built but both taller and longer, and supple in a way that seemed nearly organic.

“Your Giant is a ghost,” Ravage said, his voice a deep bass rumble. The symbiont regarded the Autobots arrayed around his Master coolly, as if being surrounded was no particular cause for concern. “The last living remnant of his people, and of a time that has been lost to Cybertron for a hundred million vorn.”

Flipsides’ blunt fingers clutched at the heavy armor of Blaster’s chestplates. _//Master--earlier, Ravage approached the Giant. He didn’t seem frightened or anything. I think he remembers him. The Giant, I mean, or -- or his people, at least,//_ the small mechkin whispered urgently. _//A-and Soundwave… he didn’t seem real interested in me. Just the Giant.//_

 _//Remembers? That’s -- you mean, firsthand?//_ Blaster paused while Flipsides thought a moment, then nodded uncertainly. Ravage was rumored to be ancient beyond reckoning. Blaster knew that the bladeframe was old -- and seeing such a rare symbiont, or *any* symbiont, wasted on a coldsparked mech like Soundwave was travesty beyond measure -- but … if what Flipsides believed was true, then by the humans’ reckoning, Ravage would have to be around eight *billion* years old. Was that even possible?

He forwarded Flipsides’ suppositions, laden with modifiers of caution, to Prowl. The tactician acknowledged the information, adding it to his calculations, sharing modified strategies with Optimus and the rest of the Autobots. None of them backed off--but the tension in the air lessened just a bit, now that violence no longer seemed quite so inevitable.

Optimus frowned behind his battlemask, the gesture betrayed only by a subtle shifting of the fine plating around his optics. He inclined his helm briefly at Ravage’s announcement. “We suspected as much, though I am glad to have confirmation. But why would you offer us this information?”

Soundwave spoke. “Initial hypothesis: Giant, did not depart Cybertron by choice. Alien incursions, frequent events in Cybertronian history.”

Blaster resisted the urge to glance at Optimus. As Prime and Matrix-bearer, Optimus quite likely had a deeper understanding of Cybertron’s past than any other mech… at least, after the near-total demise of the Chronicler class. Still, Blaster was fully aware that Soundwave’s proposal was far from impossible. Quintessons, Skuxxoid, Omirons--they all had pillaged Cybertron when they could. Cybertron was valuable simply for its physical riches, the planet’s concentration of rare metals. But a species as strong and durable as mecha was often an even greater prize. “The Giant is no slaver,” Blaster growled, certain.

“No.” Soundwave glanced to the enormous mech, then faced the Prime once more, squaring his frame. “Rather: enslaved.”

The big mech, who had stayed silent thus far, gave a low rumble at that word, round optics shuttering slightly as if in consideration. The smaller mecha around him shifted uneasily as the sound thrummed through their frames.

Optimus Prime’s glyphs reverberated with banked and glowing anger. “By whom?”

“Unknown.” Soundwave paused.

“Yeah, and that’s the problem,” Rumble scrunched up his faceplates. “Think we’d be talkin’ ta alla you bent wheels, otherwise?”

“Lord Megatron--he don’t like not knowin’ who might s-show up on the landing pad, l-lookin fer new war toys,” Frenzy added. “So here’s what’s g-gonna happen, Autobits. We’ll show ya what we got. And you show us what you got. Yer squishies stay all in one piece, an’ everyone g-goes on their way. Simple, see?”

 _//So Soundwave’s here because he thinks Megatron is worried about the return of an alien incursion that *might* have happened… in Cybertron’s prehistory?//_ Jazz prompted, circling slowly, looking for a better angle to bypass Soundwave’s guard, if it yet came to that. _//I’m not sure I believe it.//_

 _//Hate to say it, but … I can see it.//_ Blaster stroked his talons lightly, soothingly, over Flipsides’ backplates. _//Megatron holds Cybertron, for now. But the Decepticons are a lot weaker than they used to be, and with Starscream’s faction gone …. Soundwave’s thorough -- he might’ve lost every other part of his function, but he’s still got that. He’s sure as Pit not gonna tell us if they’ve started seeing signs of unfriendlies in the neighborhood. But even if they weren’t, he’d want to catalogue every possible threat, no matter how remote.//_

Prowl’s doorwings were held high, practically vibrating with tension. _//Likelihood of outright falsehood: thirty-five percent,//_ he said at last, as Optimus looked to him. _//Likelihood of partial truth: eighty percent. Projected chance that Decepticons presently intend harm towards the Giant… forty percent,//_ Prowl finished, unhappily aware of how rough the numbers were, how broad the variance ranges. He didn’t have enough data, not for anything but the crudest of estimates. Without estimates, he had no leverage, no direction.

“The Giant may choose to share what he knows with you--he is a free mech, and we will not stop him. But we will not allow him to be coerced in any way. If you violate his privacy to obtain medical scans, or to capitalize upon his vulnerabilities,” Optimus said, nodding to the tall mech who regarded them all in watchful silence. “Then we will take action, regardless of the information you offer.”

Both Decepticon mechkin blinked. “Ha!” Rumble barked a sharp laugh. “Naw, we already got the medical slag, an’ everything else ya been forwarding through the satellites. We want more n’ a couple of scans. We got, whazzit, gaps in the record, an’ you wingnuts are gonna fill ‘em in.”

“‘W-wisdom of the Primes n’ all that scrap,” Frenzy added helpfully.

“Yup. We wanna know what the Matrix knows. An’ any other archives they used ta give ta Primes.”

Blaster bristled, his words echoing a flurry of comms from every listening Autobot. “Give you punks access to the Matrix? Are you slagging kidding me? There’s no way--”

“Blaster.” Optimus’ voice overrode them all with calm authority. “Only a Prime may bear the Matrix. Even if Soundwave somehow managed to defeat all of us in order to steal it, it would be useless to him, and to Megatron.” He looked up at the Giant, into those calm white optics. “If Soundwave is telling the truth--this may be an opportunity we will never have again.”

 _//Optimus--we can’t trust Soundwave. Not with a data transfer. You’ve seen the kind of damage he can do!//_ Ratchet put in, fretting with anxiety/anger back at the embassy, his assertions echoed by Wheeljack and Que. _//He could plant viruses, or rip your core coding apart so badly that nothing we could do would fix it completely. Even letting him *touch* you is a risk, much less a data-transfer! You can’t do this!//_

“Ratchet’s right,” Blaster said aloud, slanting an unfriendly look at the Decepticon carrier. “You let Soundwave in, and he’ll make you regret it to the end of your functioning. He always does. So unless that fragger’s willing to let Ravage cable up ta me--”

“Negative.” Soundwave’s glyph was even flatter, somehow, than his usual monotone, and left no room for doubt.

“--then they’re just blowing smoke up our tailpipes. They’re not gonna share anything. Soundwave’s just trying to sucker you in, get you close enough to stab you in the spark!”

“Soundwave: will permit Ravage to cable with Flipsides--”

“What? No! No fraggin’ way!” Flipsides let out a surprised ‘eep’ as Blaster snatched up the mechkin, talons curling protectively around the symbiont’s small frame.

That crimson visor turned, Soundwave implacably meeting Blaster’s angry glare. “Flipsides: unable to take advantage of unsupervised connection. Blaster: will keep his distance during transfer.”

“You’ve gotta be off your fraggin’ axles--”

“Wait,” Flipsides clutched his small fists against the slick expanse of Blaster’s chestplates. “Master, master, please, please don’t,” he whispered, vocalizer halting as he tried to cut the volume. “I-- the Giant, he--” He switched to comms. _//He doesn't know anything about his past, and like Optimus said, this might be his best chance. What if there are others like him? He... he doesn't have a family anymore, not like we do. If this will help, I- I want to try.//_

Blaster cupped that little helm tenderly, a primary coiling around the small frame, as if that might keep Flipsides safe. His Flipsides, his treasured symbiont, as brave as he was kind. Blaster dropped to one kneeplate, drawing the little bot around to look him in the optic. _//I know you want ta help, bud. But this -- this could be what he's been after, all along. If he--//_

But Flipsides was already shaking his helm, field resolute. _//I don't think so, Master. He... Soundwave knows about the Giant's weapons. He won't grab me, not when it means risking a firefight.//_ He looked up, finding the Giant's watching optics. "If you want to find out, then I do too," he said quietly, vocalizer quavering.

The Giant inclined his great helm, white optics focussing down on Blaster and the mechkin he cradled. “Flip-sides find truth. I keep safe,” he said slowly, deliberately. “Pro-mise.”

Optimus nodded, just once: his own promise, no less powerful for its silence.

Blaster looked between all of them -- but he could feel the resolve in his symbiont’s field, in the bond between them. His optics fell on Soundwave, and he steeled himself. Still shielding Flipsides with his left arm, Blaster triggered the transformation protocols for his right, folding out the flanges of a sonic slug rifle. “You stay back, you and both yer mechkin,” he snarled. “Anything goes wrong, you make one wrong move, and I’ll be up your grill faster than you can even think to play any of your mind games. Hear me?”

Again that sardonic curl of amusement. But Soundwave simply waited, expectantly. Ravage lifted his angular helm, the blades of his frame rippling as he paced a slow, tight circle, each long-clawed pede placed with silent deliberation.

 _//You don’t have to do this, you know,//_ Blaster whispered, talons still stroking Flipsides’ backplates, silver cables twined thick.

 _//I… I know,//_ Flipsides said quietly, reaching up to gently stroke the big mech’s helm ridges. _//I know. But it’s -- it’s going to be all right. You’ll see.//_ He carefully eased his shoulder under a silver loop of segmented primary, slipping out from his master’s embrace. One little pede stepped back in the sand. Then the other, until the mechkin stood apart from his carrier. Flipsides turned, glanced back for one last, lingering look... then walked slowly out into the sandy clearing, where Ravage was waiting.

Flipsides approached the bladeframe warily. A mechkin was a larger than average symbiont, sturdy, capable of carrying a fair amount of hardware. But Ravage -- Ravage was enormous by comparison, more than twice Flipsides’ length, from sensory whiskers to the tip of his spike-flail tail. A pair of sideguns folded low over his flanks, and springbladed talons flexed in the sand. A bladeframe’s jaws could crush a mech’s arm, or a mechkin’s helm, with frightening ease. Every plate of him was a weapon, sparked and forged. Every Autobot tensed, watching as the mechkin bravely approached Ravage. If the big bladeframe meant to savage Flipsides--

But Ravage only seated himself, bladed tail curling neatly against powerful haunches, watching Flipsides’ approach without comment. Flipsides stopped before the seated symbiont. He took in a shuddering ventilation, glancing up at Soundwave, then back at his master. Then he unspooled a transfer cable, the small connector folding back to expose the delicate points. A very great deal could be shared without wires, but for the data-load required by the full depth of history, nothing but a hardline would do. “Memory-Keeper Ravage … w-would you do me the courtesy of--of sharing your memory?”

Ravage shifted slightly, plates lifting up to bare a dorsal port, and Flipsides carefully reached out to touch, small hands tentative and careful on that glossy black armored back. Ravage’s port configuration must not have differed much from Steeljaw’s, because Flipsides had little trouble finding the bladeframe’s connector. With all due deference, the mechkin handled the crossing of cables. Both symbionts stilled, instantly distracted as they navigated the complexities of competing datawalls in order to forge a solid connection.

The transfer wasn’t instantaneous; lacking a carrier’s ferocious transfer-rate, both symbionts were limited by the bitdepth of their own, more limited cables. Still, it did not take long, perhaps a breem. And then Flipsides was disengaging, stumbling backwards, his field rippling in distress.

“Master … he was right,” Flipsides said, instinctively retreating to his master’s shadow, reaching outwards. Blaster didn’t hesitate, darting from the Giant’s side to sweep Flipsides up into a protective embrace. Small white digits trembled, splayed against the bright orange of his chestplates. “It was … you have to see. You have to know …”

“It’s all right,” Blaster soothed, ignoring their silent audience. “You’ve done your part. Braver than a cityformer, that’s you. Just show me what you got, little mech, and I’ll take it from here, okay?”

Flipsides nodded, optics bright. He bared his port to his master’s waiting cable; and as Blaster forged the connection, the symbiont offered up his new memory, Ravage’s memory, bright and vivid and unforgiving in its truth.

 

**********

 

There was a long, endless moment of darkness, a drop without end. Then, the darkness fragmented, splintering into light--and in a thousand razored shards of memory, Cybertron spread out before them, alive once more.

But this … this was not a Cybertron any of them had ever known. Bathed in the light of a young sun, this Cybertron was a brilliant, alien landscape of pristine chromed plains and rippled steel foothills, of upthrust spires of iron, surfaces pitted and adorned red and orange with rust-blooms. The world before them was not a barren wasteland; instead it was full of life both large and small.  A hundred thousand mechanoid creatures leaped and ran and hid on every side, rustling through tangles of scrapweed, carving elaborate honeycombed homes from slabbed iron cliffs.  Innumerable creatures took to the air: broadwinged gliders spiralling upward on thermals, smaller flyers jetting into the amaranthine sky with white-sparking flares of primitive engines. And everywhere, soaring high into the heavens, in great upthrust pillars and arches, in lazy trickles, in broken tumbled boulders as big as a mech…. was energon. Crystallized energon, springs of liquid energon, all of it glowing every shade of rose, violet, and ultramarine, an unimaginable bounty.

Ravage stretched languidly, flaring and unkinking every plate of his newly-adult frame, razored talons spreading, carving delicious gouges out of the metal beneath. Then he bounded into action, glorying in his strength and speed, in the swift lethality of limbs and talons and fangs. He leaped for a nearby outcropping, running easily along the sheer edge, chasing bright-winged droneflies for the sheer pleasure of it.

Topping the rise, he jumped again, sinking claws into the trunk of a tall brass-toned collective of simple assemblies. The creatures had cabled themselves to the edge, extending upward, spreading crystalline photovoltaic panels wide to better catch the sun’s bright rays. He climbed, curiosity enticing him onward until he reached the very top, where the wind danced around his sensory whiskers and made nearby panels flex and flash with reflected light. From there, he could see the entire vast plain below, a shimmering expanse of light and shadow, copper and steel, rust and carbon…

… and then, a few filums away, he saw them. They moved out of the shadows of a massive vanadium-streaked cliff, flocks of smaller mechanisms scattering before them.

The titans.

Impossibly large, the titans moved slowly, with ponderous, deliberate strides. They were grazing, large blunted digits reaching out to tear off sections of metal from nearby outcroppings, and a frisson of excitement vibrated down Ravage’s backstruts at the extraordinary sight. The eldest mecha had told stories, had shared memories of the great-herds-that-were, of the titans and other enormous creatures that had reshaped Cybertron in their wake. Once, there had been many: all different kinds, different shapes and forms. It had been an age of wonders, of great mechanisms and the Allspark.

Then the Shadows had come.

Ravage knew the stories. The Shadows had blackened the sky, taken kin and foe alike. They had hunted even the strongest of Primus’ children, and cohorts and cadres alike had fled before them. Those mechanisms too large to hide, too fixed in their forms to find new defenses, had been the first to fall, while those able to adapt and transform their frames sought ever-faster, stronger, or more devious alts with which to hide and to fight. But far too many still died; creations ripped away from creators, carriers from cohorts.

Then the Primes had come: born of Cybertron’s heart, calling cohorts and cadres together. They had come, uniting Primus’ children, regardless of their functioning or their frames, and their Protectors had shown them all the ways of battle, of war, striking the Shadows down with talons of light.

Even in defeat, however, the Shadows had left their mark. In the decavorn since Ravage’s creation, it had become rare to see even one of the great mechanisms, much less an entire herd. The titans, especially, must have been uncommon to begin with; even the First’s memory contained nary a glimpse of them. Now they were here, before his very optics, and they were even bigger than his creator had said! No wonder he had been warned not to get too close. Even a warframe wouldn’t stand a chance against the size and armored strength of those titans. There were a few smaller individuals, long-limbed, with unfinished frames, that rode upon broad shoulders, or gambolled about great grey pedes--hatchlings, no doubt. Small scavengers flocked to the scraps the massive mecha left in their wake, squabbling and swirling in great clouds.

Ravage watched, marvelling at the undifferentiated white optics, the gray of the titans’ armor. There were minor differences, variations in the pearlescent steel-hued surfaces, but nothing like the vivid colors adopted by so many of his fellow Cybertronians. As the titans meandered slowly closer, he could feel the rumble of their movements reverberating through his perch, hear the distant crash of broken metal as thick slabs were snapped free, only to disappear between those chewing jaws.

Disturbed by the vibrations, the photovoltaic assemblies stirred, clicking their simple-threaded irritation. One by one, they set about folding their wide panels shut, climbing with spidery little legs down into the hollow brass tubes that supported them. Some of the tube-mechanisms began their own adaptive transformations, gradually exuding thorns, little good though that would do them if one of the titans chose to graze here.

Thankfully, the herd seemed to have no real interest in this particular outcropping. Ravage reset his optics, bi-part lenses focusing down, judging the path of the great beasts. Their meandering course seemed mostly directed by the grazing opportunities along the way--here a jumble of copper boulders, there a pool of semi-molten tin, spiced with iron chunks laced with other alloys--but the titans were definitely on the move. For the most part, they stuck to the shadows of the great upthrust ridge, helms warily lifting towards the sky whenever they ventured out into the open. Did they also remember? They certainly seemed to retain an instinctual fear of the great predators that had come from beyond the sky.

Ravage continued to watch until the little herd was nothing more than tiny specks, disappearing into a forest of energon spires. His claws scritched on the brassy scales of the photovoltaic collective, curiosity warring with caution. At last, Ravage let himself drop to the ground, hydraulic-piston absorbers taking the shock of landing. He lapped briefly at a trickle of energon that pooled at the juncture of broken steel slabs. Then he set off, on the trail of the titans.

 

**********

 

In the course of Ravage’s search, the bladeframe witnessed for himself a thousand new things, saw vistas the beauty of which all but broke the spark, met creatures great and small. But he never found the titans again.

 

**********

 

The world lurched, shifted, the body of the memory falling to pieces in a shower of glittering, dendritic shards -- points of crystallized antiquity, an ever-shuffling blur.

One by one, limbs of the infinitely complex branchings of memory rose up, breaking open to show them all: tiny wings folded trembling around a primitive chassis; fear beating through simple circuits as the symbiont peered from concealment, while overhead a great dark Shadow passed. The symbiont’s optics were sharp, though poor in features -- dust had to be blinked away, rather than repelled by sonics -- and picked out details: turrets, crude-bolted plates of dead metal, beams that reached down like long talons from the sky.

Another: a warframe glorying in his strength, in his clade’s power, in the weapons his cohort had spent so much effort to craft. He roared his triumph, echoed by the exultant mecha around him as he lifted up a bright saber in one three-clawed hand. With the other, he hefted an enormous curved chunk of cybertronium, a segment of spark casing torn from a huge gray corpse. Something pinged, low to the ground, and the symbiont blinked down his pointed muzzle. A bolt rocked against his slender pede, aimless now, its guidance gone.

Another: the great bowl of a ravine. Only a few hundred of vorn ago, it had been dotted with energon springs, the terrain clear enough to trot through on delicate symbiont hooves. Now it was brutal and wild, grown thick with scrapweed and razorvines, concealing sharp-opticked and hungry hunters. The springs were no more, and the symbiont hesitated. Then he turned away, following a newly-cut road back to his master.

All these and a hundred more: fragments of memories, of moments in history. Not Ravage’s -- rather the anamneses of others, collected and safeguarded through all the turnings of the universe. Some of them were older than timestamps, older than counting. Others were newer, though only by comparison: every datafile was unimaginably ancient, predating even the first Golden Age, when the time-glyphs could be made out at all. Each was a short thread of history, a brief span of moments or breems, pared down to essentials… all of them hinting at the far richer tapestry that extended beyond these brief glimpses.

Blaster drew a shuddering ventilation. He reached out to steady himself -- and found his hand pressed against a surface that seemed, for a moment, far more familiar than it should have been: the great gray curve of the Giant’s shin plate.

If this… if these memories were to be believed, then these prehistoric invaders might well have been the ones to decimate the Giant’s kind. But it was Blaster’s species--Cybertronians--who had driven the few that remained to extinction.

Huge white optics blinked down at him. Blaster tucked his field tight, held Flipsides a little closer as he stripped down the the memories, removing them of unnecessary data streams until they were of manageable size. Then, reluctantly, he forwarded them to Prowl and Jazz for a virus scan…. and then finally to the Prime.

Optimus was silent for several long minutes as he absorbed the memory-files. Even as pared down as they were, the Autobots could see how the recollections affected their Prime. His field rippled with complex interwoven emotions, almost too many to name--shock and delight, pleasure flickering into pain, wonder intermingled with sorrow. Optics glowing brightly, Optimus lifted one hand, touching the heavy armor over his spark--and the Matrix. “This is …” he murmured. “How could we have lost so much … and never known?” He looked down at Ravage’s waiting form. “We thought that we were the only species the Allspark had gifted with sapience. We never understood what they were, did we?”

The bladeframe lazily stood, stretched, all his talons carving neat gouges in the sandstone. “No. They were thought to be magnificent creatures, but little more. Perhaps they believed the same of us. They could not understand our language, nor we theirs.” He paced a slow, thoughtful circle, then turned back to the shelter of his own Master’s shadow. “We must have seemed nothing more than small, highly adaptable pack predators. The wolves of our world.”

“Seems ta me they weren’t all that wrong.” Jazz’s glyphs were wryly self-condemning, aimed at both Soundwave and themselves.

“There are no apologies we can give to the dead,” Optimus said gravely, moving to stand before the Giant’s kneeling form. “But that makes the living all the more precious. Giant--”

Always chaotic, that enormous field went still. Utterly, abjectly, still -- like a mech gone into stasis, transparent as a mirage. The words seemed to catch in Optimus’ vocalizer, held down by the sudden impression of pressure, gravity. The awed or calculating comms across the tacnet faded, mecha exchanging silent glances. The Giant… how much had he heard? Had he caught at the edges of these files, exchanged so rapidly over comms? What if he--

The big mech surged to his feet, sending Autobots and Decepticons alike scrambling backwards, nearly bowled over by the rush of his field as it flared, spiking outwards in dull crimson and electric yellow fragments of … fear? That gray helm snapped upwards. “They come,” the Giant rumbled, his frame tensed, blunted digits curled into great fists.

Blaster looked, following the Giant’s gaze. Above, towards the north, the skies rippled. The disruption wouldn’t have been visible to a human, but to optics adapted for a far wider range of wavelengths, something seemed… wrong. Cosmic rays and neutrinos seemed to thicken, leaving oddly-spiraling tracks in their wake instead of the usual sharp lines. And there were… more of them, too, fewer curved away by the blanket of atmosphere. The chaotic tracks seemed to cast a shadow across the parched desert -- a quantum rain that brought no water.

Wheeljack’s presence in the tacnet sharpened. _//Kardovian displacement,//_ he said simply, identifying the phenomenon.

Jazz’s visor flickered, the saboteur caught by surprise. _//Non-interlacing teleportation? Into a planetary atmosphere? Who in this galaxy would be so fragging--//_

“En-emy,” the Giant said, white optics still trained upon the sky. “Bad ones … they come.”


	21. Chapter 21

_Enemy_.

Soundwave’s crimson visor snapped skyward, tracking that dark rain -- the plasma from the planet’s own magnetosphere belts, drawn down into sinkholes of fluxing space. “Rumble, Frenzy, Ravage: return.” The symbionts scampered back to their master, leaping into the air and transforming even as Soundwave unfolded the heavy armor of his chestplates, heedless of the Autobots nearby. The symbionts’ frames compacted down, folding inward and socketing into place within astroseconds. Then the heavy plates were sliding back in place, locking together, and Soundwave was turning to face the new threat, sonic cannon humming with charge.

“Not friends o’ yours then, I take it?” Jazz remarked, even as he pivoted, trying to keep an optic on their resident Decepticon as well as the intruders. The heavy pressure of the Giant’s fear beat down on them all, the wide spread of his field flaring and snapping with muddied color, shot through with bright scarlet and electric bolts of white-yellow.

“Negative,” Soundwave said flatly.

“So not cool. How the frag--” Blaster hissed, furious. Soundwave had either been followed, or had somehow led the…. Flipsides’ fingers tightened on his plating, the mechkin’s field suffused with fear, and carrier protocols surged to the fore, reminding him of his duty. No matter how much he hated Soundwave, his symbionts came first. _Protect_. Blaster snarled a curse as he dodged back around the Giant’s pede, darting for the Autobot lines, even as his chestplates slid open. Flipsides docked in a flurry of movement, limbs folding inward as he flowed into his cassette altmode.

 _//Optimus, you all need to retreat,//_ Red Alert commed urgently. _//We’ve got basic sensors rewired and routed around Soundwave’s interference, and I’m picking up no fewer than fifteen anomalies. You’re far too exposed out there! There’s no cover, and--//_

 _//There’s no time,//_ Prowl interjected, optics and sensory arrays tracking the atmospheric disturbances, calculating speed and plotting trajectories. The fabric of space twisted, the air carving a widening gyre around each collapsing column of trans-galactic slip, as if the sky had filled with a dozen rapidly-forming tornado funnels. _//They’re moving too fast; we will never be able to outrun them on the ground. They also seem to be heading straight for us.//_

“No … not us,” Blaster said, looking upwards at the great gray mech who had stepped forward, blunted digits clenched into great fists, as if to place himself between the interlopers and the smaller mecha behind him. “They’re heading for *him*.”

The Giant rumbled in agreement, a sub-bass warning that vibrated down struts and beneath pedes, sending pebbles dancing upon the dusty ground. Then he opened a channel, sending one of his rare wordless comms: colors washing back and forth sickeningly over images of decay, of corroded metal and slagged machinery, and image upon horrific image pulled from the humans’ historical archives.  Bodies shovelled into pits, cities reduced to cinders, hollow-eyed corpses in chains, of destruction and ruin and death ....

“Bad ones,” the Giant grated, massive jaws clenched. “They come.” The huge mech looked down, regarding them all, while the skies began to twist above him. His words seemed to become heavier, rougher. “I stay. Friends hide. Ato-mo--”

 _//Whoever they are, they’re coming in fast,//_ Wheeljack’s warning flashed across the tacnet, even as the engineer took a few steps backwards. _//Brace yourselves!//_

Thunder shook them to the struts, a rolling crash of air sucked into the fingerlike projections of stellar vacuum. Fourteen… fifteen… no, sixteen hazy streaks sliced vertically downward, as decompressing air dumped its scanty water in a multitude of icy crystalline flecks, flurrying columns of snow under the high desert sun. Cold wind -- an arctic blast of strut-chilling cold -- washed the plateau, a sand-blasting wave that scoured every surface, fogging the air with grit, roiling down into the canyons and arroyos.

Ships shot from those funnel-cloud columns. They carved the daggers of mist apart with their wings as they burst through the atmospheric distortions that had cloaked their forms. Sharp-edged and small, they were neither human or Cybertronian in make.

“Autobots, regroup,” Optimus ordered, the high, crisp tones of Cybertronian cutting through the scream of sand and wind alike. “We must make a stand and allow the Giant to retreat. Giant--” And then there was no more time. The ships were upon them, dropping down out of the sky, featureless and dark, spined with strange edge protrusions. The Autobots scattered, diving for cover as the new enemy opened fire, green-tinged explosions tearing apart the desert around them.

The Giant, however, refused to move, standing tall despite the fear in his field, ignoring pleas and commands both. Stray blasts impacted his broad chest as he stepped between the onrushing ships and the scattered Autobots, his broad frame a living shield. Optimus and the others returned fire, scrambling to protect themselves and their friend.

Crouching on one kneeplate behind an outcropping of sandstone-- little good though the friable cover would do him in a direct hit--Blaster monitored the local frequencies, even as he fired slug after slug at the lead ships. His electromag rifle had little chance of disrupting the kind of plating installed on any interstellar mechanism, but with luck, it wouldn’t need to. Multiple ships needed to coordinate, to communicate, which meant transmitted signals. Transmitted signals could be intercepted, could be cracked. With stubby panels spread as much as he dared, Blaster swept an ever-broadening array of bandwidths across a billion energy frequencies, searching for any trace of a pattern.

The task was nearly impossible; both the conflicting washes of so many fields in close proximity and the Autobots’ own comm chatter conspired against him, turning the atmosphere into a haze of conflicting signals. No other Autobot could have sieved sense from that impossible confusion -- no one except a communications specialist, and Blaster was one of the best. Within a klik he’d found it: a signal, not the coded chatter of trajectories and vectors, but rather a singular pulse. It was subtle, but directed and powerfully intentional. And it was growing stronger by the nanoklik, cutting through the wash of the Giant's great field. Blaster magnified and confirmed the data, then forwarded it to the tacnet and Red Alert. But with most of the equipment at the embassy down, analysis or even identifying the base language would take a mirac--

The Giant staggered. With the deep groan of metal stressed beyond its tolerances, he collapsed, kneeplates cratering the earth. Broad gray hands clutched at his helm. More violent greenish explosions raked across those broad silver backplates, liquid fire fusing the sand in the air. Molten glass rained down -- a deluge of hellfire tears plummeting through the unnatural snow. More impacts shook the plateau, jolting fine cracks through the sand-blasted ground.

“Soundwave!” The first flight of ships screamed overhead, chased by the Autobots’ return fire. Optimus’ command sliced through the chaos, even as he charged forward, towards the Giant’s fallen form. “Release your communications override. We need Teletraan!”

“Not to mention the fraggin’ Wreckers and Aerials!” Jazz shouted over the thundering din. “We’re drones in a slagging shootin’ gallery out here!” He skidded over to the Giant’s hunched over frame, firing at an alien ship that was arching upwards, positioning for another run. “Giant, m’mech, ya hear me? Don’t worry, we’re here, we got ya--”

Blaster watched tensely through the blowing sand and snow; watched as Soundwave tilted his helm, considering Optimus’ order. The Decepticon had taken refuge in a shallow gully, using the rise of a low hill as cover. He was just as exposed as the rest of them, though; his cover was minimal at best, no real barrier to a full aerial assault. Soundwave might be a sparkless Decepticon butcher, but he was also a survivor.

That crimson visor dipped in a bare nod. “Soundwave: acknowledges.”

An instant later, the global lines flowered open, communication pathways relinking in a cascade of acknowledgement signals, a million times deeper and broader than their limited local tacnet. Red Alert’s relief and Ratchet’s concern were almost palpable, underlying the busy hum of tactical analyses and Sky Spy’s positional data, all of the Autobots’ far-flung resources interlocking together in an instant.

_//Optimus! NEST is moving to support, and the Air Force is scrambling fighters out of Nellis. They’ll be there in less than a breem--//_

_//They’ll have to beat us there first,//_ Springer sent, his terse glyphs spiked with _battle-anticipation_. _//Figured something was wrong. We’re already on our way back--half a breem, tops, and we’ll force these guys down for ya.//_

 _//Red Alert, ensure the humans maintain their distance until the Kardovian rifts close.//_ Even half way around the world, Perceptor received the sensory readouts of every Autobot in the firefight. _//The associated tunneling displaces Van Allen radiation belts, and excessive exposure may result in mutational defects in organics. Additionally, the local temperatures of fused silica mat--//_

 _//I hear ya--whoah!//_ Jazz’s transmission washed out in a fuzz of static as a blast sent him tumbling, the radiation load in the air spiking. _//--fraggin--! Be careful. These aren’t Decepticons, but they’re fast, whoever they are, an’ they’re not shy about usin’ their big guns!//_

 _//Yeah, and the only big gun we got out here is Optimus,//_ Wheeljack put in. _//He’s pinned down like the rest of us, and the Giant--//_ Images flashed over the tacnet: the big mech’s armor scorched and smoking, the surfaces slagged and pitted by the impacts he’d taken in covering the smaller mecha behind him. The convulsive clutching of his helm, the shudders of reaction with each new hit. _//We need to get him out of here!//_

 _//We’re coming.//_ Silverbolt this time, backed by the tetrahedral glyphs of _assent/determination/eager-ferocity_ from his gestalt-brothers. The airframes’ data spread throughout the tacnet--they were currently over the Pacific ocean, cutting above the clouds at over three times the speed of sound. Skyfire, hampered by his greater bulk in atmosphere, couldn’t match their speed. Nevertheless, he wasn’t far behind. _//Hold on, all of you--we’re coming as fast as we can.//_

 _//As are we.//_ Bumblebee put in, angry at having been tricked.

 _//Silverbolt, bring your gestalt in on this vector,//_ Prowl instructed even as he fired upwards, the Autobots trying to mass their firepower enough to keep their aerial attackers at bay. _//We do not know if they are expecting interference, but even if they are, this will give them the least time to respond.//_

_//Got it, Prowl.//_

_//Red, you got anything on this freaky-deaky signal I’m hearing?//_ Blaster asked, ducking as a concussive blast blew off the top of a nearby boulder. Fragments of rock rattled off his plating, but thankfully the local sandstone was too soft to create any truly dangerous shrapnel. He’d fed the signal off to Teletraan just as soon as Soundwave had stopped his interference. Which had only been astroseconds ago, but the signal strength was continuing to rise. It beat against Blaster’s sensory arrays, an insistent, sharp-edged call.

 _//We’ve confirmed it’s coming from the ships, not from a further source,//_ Red Alert replied, his glyphs sketchy with distraction. _//And there doesn’t seem to be a specific target; they’re just blanketing the whole region. Other than that, Teletraan is still comparing it against his linguistic databases, trying to find a recognizable base. Without that--//_ Red Alert’s frustration was almost palpable, and Blaster knew why. Given that Teletraan-1’s databases spanned the better part of a galaxy, finding a match would likely take more time than they had.

A ship roared low, and Blaster risked popping out long enough to fire a few blasts from his disruptor rifle. The second and third shots caught it square on the underside, and he had the satisfaction of watching the ship spiral out of control as electricity sizzled over the alien plating. It corkscrewed into the sky--then straightened, wheeling back for another round. “Slaggit!”

A low, rising groan echoed his dismay. It didn’t end this time, however. Instead it rose, getting louder, rumbling into a metallic, audial-piercing howl that made all the Autobots freeze or duck for cover.

It was the Giant.

That great helm snapped upwards. The shaking stopped; optic shutters spiralled down, reducing white optics to pinpoints of light. The Giant surged to pedes, the nearest Autobots scrambling out of the way. When he looked down, those optics were no longer white--they were red, as scarlet as a Decepticon’s, that all-encompassing field now blank of emotion, resonating only with a singular intention. An intention that all of them, reforged again and again in the fires of an aeons-long war, knew all too well.

 _//Oh slag ... Primus smelt it--Wheeljack, tell me you and Que figured out something to keep our friend here from killin’ everything in sight!//_ Jazz demanded, transforming into his alt, tires squealing as he darted out from the Giant’s shadow.

_//What? No! I haven’t had enough time! Or materials, or--//_

_//It’s that slagging signal! They’re triggering him somehow. We have to shut it down!//_ Blaster sent furiously, even as he unfolded his fragile emitters and began broadcasting, trying to slice a static blade through that unknown signal. His evidence might be purely circumstantial, but somehow in his spark he knew it was true. But the signal was so strong … formidable Blaster might be, but anything he put out was just getting swamped by the sheer amplitude of the alien transmission, issued from too many constantly-moving sources. “We have to help him, Optimus!”

“Blaster--” whatever Optimus had intended to say, however, was lost as that helm swivelled. The Giant’s blank scarlet gaze fixed on them. He took a heavy step, one arm lifting, fingers folding together and wrist rotating down. The massively thick plates of his armor lifted in a rolling shrug, hairline transformation seams beginning to separate--

\--and Soundwave stood up.

At first Blaster thought the Decepticon meant to run--to transform and get out of the blast radius, or at least to put the Autobots between himself and this new threat. But the Decepticon carrier didn’t move. Soundwave just stood, as if oblivious to the danger. That scarlet-visored gaze tilted upward, the talons of one hand curling inward, as if they clawed through something in the air. Just that, no more, and the Giant--between one moment and the next, the Giant’s optics flickered, red giving way to white, the big mech staggering backwards, hands flying upwards to his helm.

 _Cybertronian technopath_. And no matter what had been done to him, what he had suffered… the Giant was still a Cybertronian.

The blast of Optimus’ cannon resonated a heavy, familiar _craa-thwoom_ , splitting the air with arctic blue bolts. The alien ships were darting and fast, a screaming flurry of interweaving shapes through the storm of snow and glass. But now they no longer had the element of surprise on their side. Had the Autobots not been there, their assault might well have succeeded; humans, for all their warlike nature, were still learning how to put their newfound technological prowess to use.

But now the invaders were dealing with Cybertronians. Cybertron might be a ruin, all its species reduced to near-extinction--but it didn’t matter. Cybertronians adapted. Not over successive generations, but as individuals, transforming their frames and their coding according to the dictates of survival. Their galaxy-spanning war had ensured that every surviving Cybertronian, whether Decepticon or Autobot, had been reforged for war, honed into living weapons on a scale that no other species could match.

These alien ships might be fast and lethal, but for all their agility and alien weaponry, they were nothing compared to Seekers. And every surviving Autobot had been taking potshots at Seekers for longer than the human race had walked the Earth.

One of the ships caught a volley of Prowl’s acid pellets with its wingtip, the vicious little slugs sintering through plating and the mechanisms beneath. The invader pulled up, engines straining, the white flare of its thrusters redoubling as it fought for altitude. For a moment, the vessel seemed as if it might break away from the worst of the fight.

Then Jazz fired, skating fearlessly between the Giant’s unsteady pedes, his blasts catching the ship from an unexpected angle. The dark form splintered, one engine disabled, the other trailing flames that gulped in great draughts of the oxygen-rich air, greedily feeding on the substance of the ship. Spinning wildly, the falling vessel clipped another, sending them both crashing into the sandstone mesa in a shower of debris and flame.

Their lines shifted, the tacnet humming as the Autobots moved to take advantage of the changing battlefield. As Wheeljack and Que concentrated their fire, another dark ship dove, trying to avoid both shockwave of the crash and the enemy fire streaking past its tailfins--only to fly head-on into the actinic thunder of Optimus’ rifle blast. The ship exploded in midair, the titanic detonation shaking the desert, and savage satisfaction flooded the tacnet.

 _//Three down, thirteen to go,//_ Jazz said cheerily.

 _//We need to keep them bottled up here, away from the humans,//_ Optimus commanded. _//Try to keep them from the Giant, if possible.//_

 _//And keep an optic on Soundwave! Maybe that fragger didn’t bring ‘em here, but it’d be just like him to take advantage of it,//_ Blaster added. He wasn’t normally a mech who made a habit of questioning his strokes of good luck-- this one, however, was from Soundwave, which made it not to be trusted, pure and simple. He moved, trying to keep a bead on the other carrier, when another greenish blast of energy hit, perilously close, showering him in sandstone shards. He ducked away, reflexively returning fire, hardened glass drops breaking loose from his plating and showering down to crunch under his pedes.

That signal was still being broadcast, resisting Blaster’s attempt to interfere. The rest of the invaders kept up their constant bombing dives, putting more and more power into frequency transmission -- as if they couldn’t understand why it had no effect. Or even *that* it had no effect. Were they drones? _//They may not be sentient,//_ Blaster flung the supposition into the tacnet, felt Prowl seize upon the glyphs, a missing piece falling into place. _//Are they following a flight pattern? Some kind of attack algor--//_

 _//Analysis complete.//_ Prowl’s terse communication came with a flood of tactical projections, each value precise and continuously refined. _//The Giant is their main target; we are secondary. They are slow to compensate for the unexpected. We can use that to our advantage.//_

Trusting in Prowl’s tactical prowess, the Autobots moved as one. Wheeljack and Que barrelled off the ridgeline just moments before five ships swept across it, strafing the area. Joining up with Jazz, they roared down the bare sandstone in their alts, forming up into a three-mech squad, firing rearguns as they went. As Prowl had predicted, several of the alien ships banked and gave chase, unable to resist the tight grouping of targets. Blasts of greenish fissile energy rocked the desert, cratering the ground as the three groundframes poured on the speed ahead of their pursuers, using every bit of skill they had to evade the attacks.

Que yelped as a stray shot clipped his rear spoiler. Their diversion, however, had worked. Blaster and Prowl had retreated, folding into their alts and making for better firing positions. Now, as their fellow Autobots passed, they opened fire--straight into the oncoming ships. Acid pellets cored through armor, disrupter blasts taking advantage of those weaknesses to arc through systems and fry delicate internals. Caught by surprise, the four alien ships flew straight into a hailstorm of weapons-fire, unable to switch targets fast enough. Two ships simply disintegrated, their frames breaking up under the onslaught, falling apart in a hail of flame and sharp-edged shrapnel. A third jinked, frantically attempting to evade, only to have an engine fail, sending it into a flat spin. Gravity reasserted its hold, dragging it inexorably downward. The nose hit first, then a wing; the ship tumbled, breaking apart across the desert in a broad swathe of fire and destruction.

The fourth ship escaped, trailing fire and smoke, its wings ragged with acid-burned holes, climbing into the sky. And now it was Prowl and Blaster’s turn to escape, the two ambushers transforming and running for cover as other alien ships targeted them. Optimus laid down cover fire, the heavy * _boom_ * of his rifle a steady reminder of their Prime’s presence on the battlefield.

 _//Well, that was fun, kiddies,//_ Jazz sent, charged by their narrow escape and successful ambush. _//Ready to try that again and see if they learn anything from their mistakes?//_

 _//No need, Jazz. Take a break--we’ve got this.//_ Skydive put in, glyphs flickering with grim satisfaction.

The besieged Autobots had barely an astrosecond to register the meaning behind those glyphs before the Aerialbots were there, Silverbolt in the lead, dropping down out of the sky and opening fire.  The dark attackers scattered like twitchflies, darting in all directions as the ranked Autobot formation tore through their numbers. Air Raid caught one in a daring barrel roll, deliberately bashing the thing out of the sky even as his forward guns swept white-hot slugs across another ship’s path. _//Look out below!//_

The rest of the alien ships returned fire, locking onto anything that moved. But Prowl’s projections were right. They fired at targets in sequence or as opportunity presented, but they didn’t coordinate, didn’t single out the most dangerous or most injured from among the Autobots, didn’t employ anything beyond the most primitive strategies. They also didn’t retreat, even as ship after ship fell to targeted fire.

Flaming debris rained down, whole chunks of alien plating and burned-out chassis falling from the sky. Near the epicenter, Jazz darted for cover from the spiraling wreckage, quicksilver-fast on his pedes. Something plummeted, too fast, too close--Jazz ducked, even as Blaster flung glyphs of warning into the tacnet. A shadow fell over the saboteur, and a chunk the size of a minibot’s chassis cratered the sandstone mere mechanometers in front of him -- deflected by a great, reaching hand. Concerned white optics looked down into a startled blue visor as Jazz straightened, pausing for just an instant.

 _//Glad ta see ya back with us, big guy!//_ Jazz sent, layering his field with _gratitude/relief_ , obvious enough for even the big mech to pick it up. He was already moving off even before he’d finished transmitting the English words, intentionally showy, wheeling away and trying to draw at least some of the greenish blasts away from the Giant’s hunched frame. _//Hang in there!//_

 _//...Will try...//_ the Giant’s words were slow, letters picked out one by one in image format, as if stringing together a verbal acknowledgement took too much concentration. He flinched as another invader came apart midair, igniting with a thundering boom that ejected shrapnel across the tattered battlefield.

Overhead, Skydive and Fireflight roared low, each tailed by an alien ship. They ripped past, weaving together in maneuvers that would have been dangerously close, if the airframes in question weren’t gestalt-linked. Fireflight jinked left, Skydive cut thrust and banked hard in the same direction, and the ship on Fireflight’s tail now found himself squarely within Skydive’s crosshairs. A close-fire burst of smart missiles, and Skydive was soaring above the ship’s explosive demise, even as Fireflight completed his roll and took out the remaining ship in a gleefully deadly attack.

 _//Now that’s what I call teamwork!//_ Fireflight crowed as he burst through the cloud of smoke and debris that was all that remained of Skydive’s pursuer -- then pulled up, frantically spiraling skyward as sheer cliffs loomed ahead.

 _//Fragitall, you barely left any for us!//_ Springer fumed as the Axalon, still heavily loaded with unneeded digging equipment, dropped rapidly down into the troposphere.  
  
 _//Shouldn’t’a been such fraggin’ slowpokes, then. Down to six--//_ Slingshot popped up, then changed pitch on his thrusters and did a quick 180 degree spin in midair, capitalizing on his Cybertronian mobility to herd a drone directly into Silverbolt’s line of fire. Silverbolt didn’t hesitate; the great silver Seeker roared past, energon blasts cutting the alien craft apart from bow to stern, turning it into nothing more than an expanding ball of shrapnel and burning fuel. _//--five now, cogsuckers!//_

 _//Oops, four,//_ Que added apologetically, as his cannon blast took out another ship. _//Sorry, he was right there--I couldn’t resist!//_

 _//Leaving us ta do mop up -- we let you lot have an astrosecond’s head start and you go and have all the fun--//_ Springer grumbled as the Axalon came into view, frame glowing with the heat of its passage, its wake in the atmosphere a visible sonic ripple. Transformation seams opened, and the covers folded back from forward energon cannons, red lightning already building at the ends of the silvered barrels. _//Alright, you lot, make way--big guns, comin’ through!//_

Silverbolt and the other Aerials peeled off, exiting the close-quarters dogfight with eerie synchronicity. Below, Wheeljack, Blaster and the others all ran for cover--in this case, the Giant--while at the same time urging him down, to cover his helm and vulnerable optics.

The Axalon opened fire. Massive energon blasts that could take out a battleship, given good aim and a reasonable amount of luck, tore through the air. The first shots tore apart one of the alien ships, obliterating it in an instant, even as the Axalon roared down. The dreadnaught greatly outmassed the small alien ships, sending them darting frantically in all directions, some of them tumbling from the sheer displacement of air, the backwash of the cannons’ discharge. Another volley--two more ships were down, turned into fiery explosions and bits of metal.

Only one ship was left. It frantically wove through the sky, trying to dodge the Axalon’s weaponry--then tipped upwards, going vertical, as if to try and make its escape into orbit. The Axalon rolled, rearguns already turning, aiming--

\--and then Skyfire was there, barrelling down out of the clouds, forcing the smaller ship down. _//A prisoner might be a good idea, don’t you think?//_ the big mech said mildly, even as he effortlessly cut off the invader’s attempts at escape, herding it towards the ground. _//Springer, if you’d be so kind as to cripple instead of annihilate this one … I’m sure Optimus and the others have more than a few questions they’d like to ask.//_

 _//Spoilsport,//_ Springer groused. _//You honestly think a few warning shots are gonna make this fragger give up?//_

 _//If those shots are through its wings? Yes.//_ Skyfire’s glyphs turned harder, more implacable. The big shuttlemech might hate the war, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize the necessity of fighting for his friends. _//Allow me.//_ He opened fire--three precise, targeted energon blasts that tore off the small black ship’s wingtips, slagged the edges of its tailfins. Engines roaring, the ship faltered, lurching downward like a drunken bumblebee, no longer able to control its direction in the air. Skyfire followed, a patient scarlet and white shadow, weapons at the ready. The Axalon, however, was already turning, settling towards the ground. Now that the aerial threat had been neutralized, the Wreckers wanted out, if only to inspect the wreckage and kick anything not already dead in the helm a few times.  
  
 _//Watch your landings,//_ Blaster warned, scanning through the billowing dust and drifting, powdery snow. He’d lost sight of the other carrier sometime during the chaos. With any luck, the fragger might’ve been crushed by the falling debris. A spike of fear sharpened his search, as he ducked around the slowly-straightening, scorched gray wall of the Giant’s arm. The symbionts should be unharmed, safe in their armored docks, but... _//Soundwave is on the grou--//_

_//What!? Here? Roadbuster, get your aft on the bombing scanners, we gotta--//_

_//Belay that.//_ Optimus’ command was firm, calm over the squealing impact of the last alien ship behind him, the roar of landing aircraft. _//Soundwave may be an ally. For the moment, at least.//_

_//What???//_

_//An ally?!//_

_//Whaddaya mean, for the MOMENT?//_ A clamor of protest erupted, threatening to swamp the tacnet.

 _//Hold up, m’mecha. Here’s what we know.//_ Jazz prepared a quick update on Soundwave’s threat, and the danger he posed -- might still pose -- to the humans.

Prowl then added a few orderly bullet points of his own to the briefing, underscoring Optimus’ hold fire order. _//Red Alert, Smokescreen, any progress on counteracting the satellite overrides?//_

Red Alert returned nothing more than a null glyph, a distracted _processing/busy_. Smokescreen answered. _//I’ve found a loose thread or two, and several possible incursions into Teletraan. But without being able to see what I’m unravelling… Soundwave might be bluffing. Or he might hold all the high cards. I just don’t know.//_

 _//I'm seeing more wreckage on the ground than just these things,//_ Skydive noted, circling slowly for landing. _//You sure we have everyone accounted for?//_

 _//A few scrapes and dents, but we’re good. The Giant got the worst of it. Wreckage? Whaddya mean-//_ Blaster started as the Giant pushed himself unsteadily to his pedes, huge white optics blinking slowly as he gazed around the battlefield. He seemed unharmed by whatever Soundwave had done -- though it wasn’t like any of them had any way of knowing that for sure. The Giant had no defenses against a technopathic attack. Soundwave could have left viruses, planted back doors...

 _//East of your position, directly uphill, about a klik and a half away.//_ Skyfire forwarded a view from the air -- a jumble of burning wreckage, a bit larger than the invaders, tipped on its side and half-buried by enormous chunks of sandstone. Broken parts littered the nearby desert. _//It looks like it used to be a cometary-class Decepticon scout ship. But--//_

 _//You may be correct,//_ Prowl’s analysis was cold, dispassionate. _//Eleven percent of such scouts are equipped with cloaking devices, at last analysis. It may explain how we failed to detect Soundwave’s return.//_

 _//If so, then he’s definitely not gettin’ away from us this time,//_ Blaster returned, with vicious satisfaction. Soundwave’s schemes had finally caught up with him. That coldsparked slagger wasn’t going anywhere, not anymore. Had the Decepticon reached his vessel, tried to escape during the chaos of battle? The symbionts--

“Friends--” the Giant rumbled slowly, wincing in a very Cybertronian expression of discomfort, his scorched and heat-warped plating grating when he turned his helm. His optics fell on each mech in turn: the disgruntled Wreckers piling from the Axalon, the Aerialbots, transforming in midair to land with victorious flourishes, and the rest of the Autobots. He turned his helm, searching ...then seemed to spot what he was looking for. A spike of pure golden relief echoed through his encompassing field. “All friends, not hurt,” he said, as if in wonder.

Blaster circled for a better view through the billowing clouds of metal ash and dust. The mesa top was a disaster, every trace of sandy, dry soil blasted away. The sandstone was blackened and cratered. Pinkish, hardened glass coated everything that was left in a thin and glittering layer, topped in places with rapidly-melting drifts of powdery snow. Enormous sections of upthrust sandstone ridges were simply gone, or collapsed into piles of rubble, some chunks larger than a mech, weighing hundreds of tons.

A warm breeze tattered the veiling smoke. Like a bruise against the orange-red desert, Soundwave walked between the remains of the fallen invaders, each slow stride leaving a shattered depression in the glass, as if he trailed ruin with every step.

“Not all friends, big guy,” Blaster said, optics narrowing. “Definitely not friends.” Which brought up an uncomfortable question. Somehow, they had managed to trap Soundwave on Earth.

Now what, exactly, did they do with him?


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaster had more reasons than most to hate Soundwave. But that long-seated resentment also had a tendency to blind Blaster to the larger picture. Blaster was the coolest cat Jazz knew -- except when his remaining symbionts were at stake. And Soundwave was practically the personification of that danger.

Soundwave seemed to be contemplating the smoking wreckage of his ship. It was difficult to tell what had happened to the Decepticon scouting vessel, given all the sandstone rubble that had fallen across the half-buried, battered shell. But if Jazz had to guess, the disabling blow had been an accidental hit, either by falling debris or enemy fire.

Either way, unless Soundwave had brought more backup than just his cassettes on this little jaunt, he was well and truly trapped. Not that you could tell from the way he acted. The big Decepticon was impossible to read at the best of times, and now he paced the perimeter of the wreckage, as if oblivious to the number of weapons currently aimed at his backplates. Not to mention Blaster's glare. The Autobot carrier was currently looming nearby, the prickling _distrust/hatred_ in his field unabated by Soundwave’s current predicament.

Which was hardly a surprise; Blaster had more reasons than most to hate Soundwave. But that long-seated resentment also had a tendency to blind Blaster to the larger picture. Blaster was the coolest cat Jazz knew -- except when his remaining symbionts were at stake. And Soundwave was practically the personification of that danger.

Jazz, by contrast, was more pragmatic. Soundwave’s presence was a threat, true. Not counting Megatron, the big carrier was possibly the most dangerous of the Decepticon command staff. And at least you knew where you stood with Megatron -- for the nanoklik it took for him to rip your helm off your shoulders, anyway. While the others … Starscream, like most Seekers, might be a potent and unpredictable force on the battlefield, but his ego and his arrogance often opened opportunities for manipulation. And Shockwave could give any Decepticon a run for their money in sheer unadulterated sadism, but his scientific obsessions made him easier to anticipate. It was possible, in theory at least, to counter his plans at an early stage.

Soundwave, on the other hand … Soundwave was impossible to pin down, and the minute you thought you had him cornered was probably about the time you should be looking for the energon spike in your backplates. If he had any weaknesses beyond his symbionts and his loyalty to Megatron, the Autobots had never been able to find them. And trying to hold a symbiont hostage against this particular carrier was like juggling with live ordnance--you’d be lucky to come away with all your limbs intact. Pit, the Autobots were still looking for the pieces of the last mech who had tried.

But now... even if Soundwave still wanted the information that Optimus might be able to provide, the carrier could no longer escape offworld. That gave the Autobots two potential points of leverage over him. Soundwave, in turn, had a possible hold over the continued survival of human civilization, and Jazz judged it very likely that the carrier would try to obtain his goals--or at least ensure his safety--by employing that threat.

And there were the aliens. Had Soundwave known they were there? Had he led them to Earth? Or had he been caught just as off-guard as the Autobots by the attack? Despite his reputation, Soundwave was not omniscient. Still ….

The saboteur could feel Prowl following his calculations, the tight-banded thread kept open between them allowing the tactician to assign probabilities and percentages to outcomes. _//Probability of stalemate, currently ninety-three-point-five-two percent,//_ Prowl supplied.

A simple exchange of information, the humans and their technology all in one piece, and then everyone went on their way -- those had been the terms. But circumstances had changed. _//What if we give him an easier way out?//_ Jazz mused.

 _//Define easier,//_ Prowl’s glyphs were brief and sharp, an impolite demand from any other mech. But Jazz knew Prowl.

_//Threatenin’ us means he risks himself an’ his symbionts, right? Optimus can only be pushed so far. So mebbe we can promise to exchange transport for… cooperation.//_

_//The likelihood of betrayal/sabotage if Soundwave is allowed into the embassy in an online condition is eighty-five percent,//_ Prowl immediately replied, his displeasure plain. The possibilities for sabotage were endless, and their magnitude almost incalculable. Soundwave could plant virii, sabotage Teletraan’s code; could even worm his way into the cortexes of ‘bots not equipped with field scramblers and turn them into unwitting spies or worse. The Giant, especially, had no such scrambler, and given what had happened during the attack, it appeared that Soundwave could easily hack the big mech. Everyone would need constant scans of their core coding, and there was no way Smokescreen would be able to manage it; not when he was already up to his chevron with work trying to track down and counter Soundwave’s other infiltrations.

_//Can ya calculate a better option? If we let him go, who knows what he’ll get up ta. If we let him strong-arm us into givin’ him a ship right now, ‘ol Bucket-helm is gonna learn about Starscream an’ maybe the hatchlings in a matter of joor. But if we don’t play ball, Soundwave’s not gonna let himself be put in stasis without a fight, which would cost us a lot, an’ the humans even more.//_

_//Agreed. Further battle is tactically unsound at this time. This new threat still needs to be assessed, and we cannot afford to expend our limited resources on a single Decepticon.//_ From anyone else, the admission would have been sour--losing the chance to take out Soundwave once and for all was a bitter pill to swallow. From Prowl, however, it was nothing more than a simple statement of fact. There was no point in terminating a high-value target if, in doing so, you lost more than you gained. _//My current recommendation: preserve the current truce, and place Soundwave into protective custody several miles from the embassy. No guards close enough to hack; snipers and orbital surveillance should provide disincentive to escape, at least in the short term.//_

Jazz tilted his helm a little, considering the proposal. The numbers weren’t great; they had maybe a fifty-fifty chance of pulling this off, but… what other choice did they have? _//Don’t forget about his symbionts. They’re sneaky little slaggers; it’d be just like Soundwave ta sit there like a sphinx and let them slink off ta do his dirty work,//_ he warned Prowl, even as he forwarded the proposed course of action to Optimus.

Optimus absorbed Prowl’s projections, sending them both a wordless glyph of gratitude. The Prime’s battlemask was still up, his weapons still online, as he continued with his post-battle checks. Optimus swept a concerned glance over the Giant, but it was evident that the big mech was being tended to, with both Wheeljack and Que fussing over the surface damage to the gentle mech’s armor. The Giant seemed to be handling both his injuries and the attention with his usual imperturbable calm, all signs of his former distress gone. Still, that didn’t stop the engineers from applying plenty of nanite-laden fixatives to the scorched metal, while Skyfire remained unobtrusively nearby, ready to lend a hand--or a shoulder--if needed.

Optimus turned, and Jazz and Prowl moved into position. Prowl kept his distance, coordinating other Autobots, watching from a nearby rise from which he would have a clear shot at Soundwave--or at any of the nearby Autobots, if Soundwave managed to implant a compulsion or hijack another mech’s weapons.

Jazz, for his part, shadowed Optimus, movements effortlessly smooth despite the scorch marks on his plating, the droplets of hardened glass glittering across his frame. His job was simple and singular: to keep Optimus outside Soundwave’s range. By Prowl’s best estimates, Soundwave’s technopathy was limited sharply by distance. But those estimates were far from certain, and there were too many rumors surrounding Soundwave’s technopathy for Jazz to rely entirely upon the numbers. Over the course of their long war, there had been too many unconfirmed reports, too many otherwise isolated incidents that couldn’t be directly linked to Soundwave. Jazz knew the rhythms of the battlefield, knew how plans could crumble or come together in astroseconds. Over the vorn, he had become a master in catching the barest refrain of opportunity, at snatching victory from the crushing rumble of defeat. But whenever Soundwave was on a battlefield… things went wrong. Not in any definable way, not regularly enough to quantify, and yet -- notes still turned sour, patterns fell into discordance, even when Jazz knew they shouldn’t have. Near or far from Soundwave, within his line of view or not, obvious or hidden, it just … didn’t seem to matter.

The idea that there might be no limit to Soundwave’s range was a terrifying one, and one that Jazz hoped fervently was not the case. In the meantime, he would make sure Optimus kept his distance… and Prowl would watch them both. Under the circumstances, it was the best they could do.

Optimus headed to where Soundwave stood beside the wreckage of his ship. Jazz fell into his shadow, weapons at the ready, and over the tacnet he could feel the rest of the Autobots moving, flowing into new positions on the perimeter as their Prime approached. Soundwave was a fair distance away; it would have been faster to transform and drive than walk. But Jazz had a sneaking suspicion that Optimus wanted the extra time to consider his options. And perhaps also to provide a certain amount of reassurance to the Wreckers that he still considered Soundwave a very real threat.

Soundwave seemed to be examining an engine nacelle, now much the worse for wear beneath a hundred-ton chunk of stone. “Soundwave.” Optimus’ voice was even, carefully neutral. “Do you have another ship?”

The Decepticon turned slightly, helm tilting as he considered the question. “Negative,” came the answer. It was impossible to tell whether Soundwave was lying; the carrier was inscrutable behind crimson visor and battlemask, his field revealing little more than mild irritation.

Jazz had felt that kind of emotion from Soundwave before, on the rare occasions when he had been captured and handed over to the technopath’s untender mercies. That bland, colorless annoyance had all too often been the only warning Jazz had before a hack of unimaginable brutality. Jazz still wasn’t sure if Soundwave’s dispassionate lack of emotion had made the torture easier or harder to endure. Still, Jazz would take a gleefully sadistic Vortex--or almost any other Decepticon interrogator, for that matter--over Soundwave any cycle of the orn.

“I see.” Optimus did not need to square his stance or draw himself upwards. His authority was almost palpable, the commanding presence of a Prime, an aura of power that not even Soundwave could ignore. “Further battle is pointless. I propose a temporary truce. You will have supervised access to the Giant -- if he agrees -- and will be allowed to remain on Earth until we can arrange for your transport out of the system. In exchange, you will be placed under protective custody. You will remain within the confines of the embassy grounds, at a location that we shall designate. You will be under constant surveillance; any attempts to leave, or to sabotage our systems or those of the humans, will be considered acts of war, and dealt with accordingly.”

Jazz watched Soundwave take in those words, perhaps assessing Optimus’ resolve. Optimus gave him a few sparkbeats, then continued. “Do you agree to this truce? Or will you risk both yourself and your cohort in further battle without purpose?”

“Truce, acceptable. One condition, necessary.” That red-visored gaze swept over the surrounding Wreckers, lingered on Blaster’s glowering frame… and then settled on Prowl. “Soundwave: will not tolerate attempted assassinations. Safe conduct both on and offworld, required.”

The demand wasn’t a surprise, though Jazz knew that the dark carrier had it wrong. Prowl wouldn’t try to extinguish Soundwave. No -- rather, if Prowl concluded that execution would be in the Autobots’ best interest, it would be Jazz who carried out the orders. With Mirage and Bumblebee on his team, Jazz stood a very good chance of success, too. _//That was way too slaggin’ easy,//_ Jazz sent in a tight-banded thread to Prowl. _//He must want somethin’ on Earth real bad.//_

 _//Agreed.//_ Prowl’s reply was terse, distracted by multi-threaded threat assessments and tactical considerations.

“Very well. We will ensure your safety, so long as you abide by the terms of the agreement.” Optimus looked at the wreckage, battlemask retracting as his faceplates folded down into a frown. “In the meantime, we must discover who sent this strike force. Is there anything you can tell us about them?”

Soundwave cast the Prime an assessing glance. Then he turned away from the wreckage of his ship, and started walking.

Jazz reset his visor, glanced up at Optimus. _//What the -- wait, the downed scout ship? Prowl--//_ but the tactician had already anticipated Soundwave’s purpose, was directing other Autobots clear of the Decepticon’s route. Optimus hesitated, then paced the carrier, Jazz his nimble shadow.

The desert was littered with the radioactive wreckage of the invaders, now little more than scattered parts. One of those piles, however, still twitched. Pieces of the drone littered the desert in a long trail -- here a segment of a wing, there a still-burning engine-mount. Large sections of the underside and the wiring beneath were gone, lost sometime during the thing’s long skid across rough sandstone. But the dorsal surface of the chassis was intact. Jazz watched as Soundwave circled slowly, then crouched to examine the mechanism himself.

It had not been particularly well-maintained, even before being crudely teleported -- the traces of rust on the smoky-dark plating told Jazz that much. Several markings had been branded in places, apparently in a number of different languages, and Jazz forwarded these to Teletraan. He recognized one as Thrin’eylesse, though unpacking the linguistic files took a moment. The Thrin’eylesse had been a combative little species, extinct -- so far as Jazz knew -- for at least thirty thousand years. But why ‘Lot 10946’?

“Probable culprits, slavers,” Soundwave said, words flat and devoid of emotion.

“Those from Cybertron’s early history?” Optimus asked, turning the symbionts’ memories over in his own processors.

“Negative. Resale, likely.”

 _//Teletraan has a possible identification,//_ Red Alert interrupted, glyphs edged with a caution born of incomplete data. Even before Cybertron’s fall, millions upon millions of alien species had been known to mecha, and countless others had doubtless arisen since the withdrawal of the exploration crews. _//The design roughly matches a native, predatory mechanoid of system 527.2118. The dar-liti, however, had no advanced weaponry such as this. Additionally, Teletraan identifies the brands as originating in civilizations of Andromeda 5, N’Kullia, Perdide, and Athas 12.//_

 _//None of those systems are adjacent,//_ Prowl noted. Indeed, Athas 12 was barely even part of the local galaxy group. Jazz didn’t know of too many spacefaring species who had that kind of range -- save, of course, for Cybertronians.

Still, Cybertron’s long war had many consequences, and one of them had been the void they had left behind in the balance of galactic powers. Other aggressive and predatory species had been quick to take advantage of that opening, launching innumerable clashes for dominance and territory over the vorn. It was actually a wonder that Earth had avoided interplanetary conflict so far, especially given humankind’s habit of broadcasting their presence to all and sundry. “Could this critter be part of a mercenary band?” Jazz asked, testing the fit of the pieces.

Soundwave’s crimson visor glinted in the unrelenting light. “Drone: lacking essential hardware; higher functions impaired, unable to achieve volition. Suicidal aggression, hardwired, indelible. These modifications, newer than original frame.” The Decepticon folded down on one pede and reached out, talon-tips easing back a jagged segment of dusky plating. Already half-torn from its mounts, the plate hung loose, revealing messy runs of cabling and wires, their arrangements distinctly non-Cybertronian, the primitive crystalline substructures winking underneath. Against that background, patches of different soldering stood out, familiar layouts of circuits and parts forced into an alien frame.

The creature uttered a subsonic moan, flinching in what could only be agony. Optimus stepped closer. “Enough, Soundwave. This creature is not responsible for the orders it was given. There is no need to cause it further unnecessary pain.”

Soundwave slanted him an indefinable look, but stood.

“Yanno, you seem awfully familiar with these things,” Jazz remarked, watching him closely. Soundwave might be a lot of things, but he was no medic, to be able to identify alterations at a glance. Had the Decepticons already encountered these drones? “You seen them before?”

“Negative,” Soundwave replied. “Decepticon intelligence network, extensive. Recent reports on local interstellar activity, cause for concern.”

That was a non-answer if ever Jazz had heard one. “Uh-huh. And you came all the way back here just ‘cause you were curious?” Jazz didn’t bother hiding his disbelief.

Soundwave tilted his helm, regarding the rest of the shattered, alien corpses scattered across the desert, the droplets of glass on their dead plating glittering like dew. “Orientation of vessels on entry, suggests pre-teleport deployment around larger interstellar ship.”

Jazz arched a brow ridge. That was… actually not a bad point. All sixteen had come in their own separate column, appearing in a circular formation, rather like a very large ring of sixteen dots. Given the limitations of non-interlacing teleportation -- Jazz checked with Wheeljack to be certain -- it would have been somewhat more energy-efficient to simply group all the drones together in fighting formation and teleport them in a single switch-out column. Why scatter your force, before they even reached a fight? A ring was a more appropriate deployment for space travel, arrayed around a gravitationally massive ship.

It was also a nice little derail from the question at hand. “Interesting, but--”

Soundwave interrupted, monotone deliberate and flat as he scanned the horizon, his sensor panels spreading slightly. “Larger vessels, possibly on their way. Time, short.”

“Going to a lot of effort to avoid answering that question, ain’t ya?”

“Enough. If we are to learn what drove this creature here, we must first ensure its survival.” Optimus studied the fallen foe, opening a comm to the rest of the Autobots, flagging it for priority attention. _//Soundwave’s mission objectives are not our main concern at the moment. I cannot abandon any mechanism to slow extinguishment, sparked or unsparked, drone or not. Wheeljack, Ratchet, can either of you come and assess the damage? If we can repair--//_

Blaster’s sensory panels twitched. A ripple of _alert/alarm_ flickered through his field, and Jazz reached out through the tacnet. _//Blaster? What’s up?//_

 _//There’s … something …. I can’t quite catch it, but--//_ Packaging his sensory impressions, Blaster shared them with his fellow Autobots. It was nothing so well-defined as an organized signal. Instead it was an almost indefinable shifting of the air, like a sound just beyond audial range -- a sense of transitory pressure. The invader shuddered and then went abruptly still, a mercury-like substance leaking from suddenly-ruptured lines, spreading beneath the shattered frame to trickle across the bare sandstone.

Blaster rounded on the Decepticon in their midst. “You--!”

“Soundwave: did nothing,” the big carrier replied. “Kill-switches, common in case of capture.”

“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” Blaster snarled. “How many of those poor bastard K-cons did you authorize? Bet you pushed the switch yourself more than once, you sparkless--”

“Blaster,” Optimus said firmly. “Enough.” He folded down on one kneeplate, studying the remains of the drone, regret suffusing his field. Jazz shifted uneasily.

“Bossmech--if these things have kill-switches, they might have other nasty surprises too. Best not to get too close until Que and company can take a good look at it and make sure there’s nothing else there waitin’ to blow our faceplates off.”

Soundwave tilted his helm back, looking up past the sky, to the stars hidden by the sun’s glare. “Vanguard, unlikely to be only wave,” he repeated.

“An’ there’s that too,” Jazz reluctantly agreed. Over the tacnet, he added, _//Plus we’re currently scattered all to hell n’ back, Red’s prolly pitchin’ a fit back at the embassy, to say nothing of the humans. We gotta regroup, Optimus. Get Soundwave secured, get this mess quarantined and cleaned up, and figure out what kind of intel we can wring out of both of ‘em.//_

 _//Agreed.//_ Optimus rose, shaking his helm. _//The battle is over. Now we must return home, and find out if we are facing another war.//_

 

**********

 

Soundwave was escorted back to the embassy under heavy guard. Most of the Autobots -- particularly those without scramblers -- had boarded the Axalon or Skyfire, but allowing Soundwave aboard an Autobot vessel was just asking for trouble. Instead the remaining Autobots formed a convoy, well-armed frontliners surrounding the Decepticon’s dark alt, with Skyfire and the Aerials making lazy sweeps overhead. The journey was a short one in any case, only somewhat slowed by the rough terrain.

Despite being made an effective prisoner, Soundwave seemed unperturbed by his placement at the center of a heavily-armed contingent of Autobots, as if the well-protected spot was only his due. Blaster and Flipsides -- on Optimus’ orders -- rode back with the Giant, collecting the NEST contingent from their positions on the perimeter and shepherding them back to the embassy. Perceptor had been adamant that none of the humans remain exposed to radiation for long, even levels so low as to scarcely warm a mech’s plating.

As soon as he had some distance from Soundwave, Jazz also switched to a longer-range comm channel, forwarding a message through the strongest satellites he could find. _//Cosmos, anything cracklin’ in deep space?//_ It was risky sending such an open signal, but they needed to get the call out as soon as possible. At this range and over the systems available, it might be an hour or more before they received a reply.

The Autobots left Soundwave on a rolling plain of sandy scrub, several miles from Yucca Mountain and as far away from the embassy as possible. The Decepticon didn’t protest the exposed position. Instead he spread sensor and photovoltaic panels to the desert sun, settling down on a patch of gravel without even bothering to transform. In the short time it took Jazz and Prowl to arrange for guards and negotiate the best positions for the snipers, the Xantium was already dropping down to land at the embassy, Bumblebee and the other frontliners returning from their wild-goose chase to Switzerland.

 _//So now what? We just hope he stays? Or that Wheeljack or Que can put a slug through something important if he does get it in his helm to go haring off?//_ Roadbuster’s unhappiness colored the glyphs, sharpening edges into prickling points.

Jazz shouldered a little closer, his field reassuring as they rolled up an embankment and onto the paved road. _//Only option we had. Trust me, I don’t like it any more than you do. Soon as Red gets his stash of security sensors together, lemme have you and Springer head back out with me to set ‘em up.//_ What Jazz wouldn’t give for a mobile brig unit. Of course, those had never slowed Soundwave down all that much, either. _//Hey Bluestreak, soon as you’ve got pedes on the ground, head on out. I want at least three of us on Soundwave, when we can swing it.//_

_//Oh sure -- I don’t mind hanging out in the sun a little, even if I do have to watch Soundwave, because being cooped up here with the twins hasn’t exactly been a joyride especially once they found out that we’d been tricked and sent to Switzerland even if it is really picturesque. Hey Jazz, I was looking at Switzerland's customs forms and what do you think about me going by a female pronoun as well as the other one, because the humans keep offering both options on the forms and since they really don’t have the right Cybertronian ones I thought it might be better to cover all the bases, because it kinda feels wrong to pick just one, and I just--//_

Red Alert’s comm interrupted, fritzed at the edges as he handled too many threads at once. _//Optimus, I am holding a call from Mearing.//_

 _//Put her through, Red Alert,//_ Optimus said, though they all could hear the faint inflection of resignation at the edges of his glyphs. The forwarded channel was keyed to all the Autobot command staff, allowing them to listen in.

“--and another thing, what am I supposed to do about these fallout reports? Every idiot in Nevada with a geiger counter is reporting spikes, the trackers at Nellis have all gone off, and--”

_//Defense Secretary Mearing, this is Optimus. There has been an event in the Nevada desert, approximately nine miles west of--//_

“You’re damn right there’s been an event! Just what the hell is happening out there? First we have a total communications blackout, and now NORAD is telling me we had over a dozen unknowns that just appeared in our airspace! And would you like to explain to me why we had Nellis pilots ready to go on the runway, only to get an order to stand down? Last I checked, Optimus, the Autobots were not in the Air Force chain of command. I want to know who exactly issued that order, and what’s going on. Not to mention where all this radiation is coming from! If this is another Decepticon attack--”

_//It is not a Decepticon attack, not entirely. We will have a full report for you shortly, Secretary Mearing. For now, I can tell you that the communications blackout was orchestrated by Soundwave, whom we now have in custody, and the incursion into your airspace was an attack upon the Giant by an unknown force. We are still attempting to ascertain the nature of this new threat. However, given the radiation load from the enemy’s weaponry, I would recommend keeping all human personnel, NEST and otherwise, at a safe distance until we have had the opportunity to decontaminate the site as well as ourselves.//_

“Optimus. Do you honestly expect me to go to the President with nothing more than ‘we’ve been attacked by yet another set of aliens, but don’t worry, the Autobots have it under control’? I need more information than that, and I needed it ten minutes ago! I have some very jumpy generals breathing down my neck, gentlemen, and I don’t think any of us want a repeat of what happened in D.C.” Mearing sounded grim, and it wasn’t difficult to pick up on the stress markers in her voice. Jazz could sympathize. It was a difficult position to be in, to be responsible for the safety of her portion of the planet, yet unable to truly secure it from outside aggressors. Despite the humans’ best efforts, Earth technology was simply not up to the task of defending against interstellar threats. Not yet, anyway.

Sympathy, however, did not mean that Optimus was willing to cede authority. Sentinel had taught all of them--but especially Optimus--the folly of allowing human pride to interfere with the safety of his mecha. _//Secretary Mearing. As soon as I return to the embassy, I will ensure that Mr. Witwicky is given a full report to deliver to you. In the meantime, I am afraid you must trust me when I say that the immediate threat has been dealt with, and that the Autobots are even now working to ascertain the full scope of the situation.//_

“Optimus, if you think I’m just going to sit on my ass and wait for Witwicky, you’ve got another thing coming. I have a glowing patch of desert out there --!”

This was getting them nowhere. Jazz broke into the channel, vocalizing an odd, senseless hissing sound. _//--going through a canyon now *psst* interference *psst*,”// he added a warble, a snatch of densely-layered song from a Cybertronian ensemble piece. “Forwarding your call to Perceptor.//_

“What? Wait a minute, I--”

_//Ah, Madame Mearing. Jazz reports that you had a query regarding conservation of baryon numbers in this planet’s Van Allen belts. I believe your physicists have explored the problem of chiral anomalies; therefore I will explicate proton decay with a view towards your Standard Theory as it presently exists.//_

“Van wha--”

 _//Now, in supersymmetric extensions, it is possible to find dimension-5 operators involving two fermions and two sfermions caused by the exchange of a tripletino of mass M. The sfermions will then exchange a gaugino, Higgsino, or gravitino leaving two fermions. The overall Feynman diagram --//_ Jazz confirmed the connection was solid, then dropped their end of the comm, cutting off Perceptor’s impromptu lecture and leaving Mearing as the sole remaining victim.

Optimus leveled the comm-equivalent of a disapproving look at Jazz. / _/Was that really necessary?//_

 _//What, you actually wanted to listen to her rant at ya for the next few miles, Optimus? Nothin’ you were gonna say was going ta make her happy, ya know that. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.//_ The convoy passed unhindered through the embassy blockade, and Jazz was relieved to note that Blaster had already arranged for the NEST soldiers that were usually stationed at the main road to keep their distance.

Ratchet met them out in front of the main entrance, canisters of fine powder arrayed around his pedes. “Half a dose on altmode; half on rootmode; aspirate through all your subvents,” he ordered. “And I want six standard units on the Giant as soon as he arrives. You all know the drill: pay attention to your seams, no skimping, no ducking out early. That means you, Roadbuster.”

 _//Hate these slaggin’ things,//_ the big frontliner muttered, comms damped down to try to escape Ratchet’s keen audials. The glow discharge nanites scavenged certain types of radioactive elements quite well, but itched something awful. _//Rather have a colony of antdroids in my --//_

“Don’t think I can’t hear you,” Ratchet growled, handing out the small, solid-sided cubes of gray powder. “Optimus, as soon as you can spare Wheeljack, I need him to get the electrostatic collector up and running to contain that hot spot in the desert.”

“Understood.” Once Ratchet had doused his alt with an initial dose of nanites, Optimus transformed, straightening up and taking the cube. “Is Sam--?”

“He’s waiting inside the embassy, along with Mikaela, the Hughes’ and the remaining NEST soldiers we had on duty. We’ve locked down the mountain for their safety until we finish decontamination,” Ratchet replied, giving Springer a narrow-opticked stare when the Wrecker huffed impatiently at the delay. “Don’t worry, we’re keeping them informed; Sam is already fielding inquiries from the human authorities. Hogarth and Anjali are very worried about the Giant’s condition, however. Hogarth was ready to commandeer a Humvee when he heard about the attack. Smokey had to do some fast talking to get them to stay put, and they want to see the Giant as soon as possible.”

“Understandable. Given all that has happened, I cannot blame them for wanting to make sure their friend is truly safe.” Optimus carefully shook the nanites over his helm and chestplates, making sure to dust the plating of his arms and legs thoroughly. Full coverage was not essential; the nanites were hungry mechanisms, and would migrate to wherever they were needed. A thorough dusting, however, would ensure that the nanites accomplished their goal that much more quickly.

For his part, Jazz did a little shimmy, showing off the flexibility of his frame as he finished his decontamination-dusting with a showy spin. “Ta daah! Whaddaya think, Ratchet? Am I ready for my close-up?”

Ratchet waved a harassed hand, giving him a cursory once-over before going back to ensuring the Aerialbots dosed each others’ wings and backplates properly. “Coverage looks good, but make sure to give the nanites a good half-joor to make a dent in those rads before you approach any humans.”

“Gotcha.” Movement down by the entry barricade caught Jazz’s optic. The Giant arrived, pacing a small convoy of NEST soldiers, Blaster riding on one of the huge mech’s shoulders. The big mech was keeping a careful distance from the human vehicles, Jazz was glad to see. “I was thinkin’ of going to check on Blaster and the Giant anyways. The big guy probably needs some help in those hard ta reach spots.” Jazz subspaced a few additional cubes of decontamination powder. “You good here, Optimus?”

“Of course. Please make sure the Giant is well.” It was pretty obvious that the stalemate with Soundwave was not going to end anytime soon. Jazz figured he might as well check on his friend, make sure Blaster wasn’t still freaking out about his nemesis being camped out in their backyard.

“On it,” he replied cheerfully, already towards the little group.

NEST had peeled off, regrouping to do their own debrief at a safe distance, and Jazz gave Epps and his soldiers a wave as he trotted over to where the Giant stood. “Got some presents for all of ya,” he called out to Blaster. “Nanites for everyone! Ratchet’s orders.”

Blaster nodded. “Got it,” he replied. The Giant knelt, and Blaster dropped down, landing solidly on the packed earth. Flipsides had obviously undocked somewhere along the trip back, allowing himself to be cradled protectively by a pair of primaries--a state of affairs that didn’t last long as a small herd thundered out of the embassy, heading straight for their little group, narrow-banded comm traffic filling the air.

“‘Sides!”

“Flipsides, you’re ok, the boss is ok, what were you thinking--?!”

“Boss, next time--”

“Did Soundwave try anything? Did he hurt ya? If he hurt ya I’ll--”

Flipsides slid out of Blaster’s embrace, bracing himself against his carrier’s leg to keep himself from being bowled over by Eject and Rewind’s tackle-hugs. Steeljaw and Ramhorn were only slightly more sedate, Ramhorn lightly knocking his horn against the mechkin’s backplates in admonishment. “You should know better than to wander off like that,” he growled.

“I know, I know,” Flipsides said, holding up his white hands in an attempt to mollify the older symbiont’s displeasure. “I’m sorry, Ramhorn. It’s just--I didn’t want the Giant to go alone, and I didn’t think we’d get into *that* much trouble …”

“I’m not blamin’ ya, Flipsides,” Blaster said as he knelt, reaching out to pat and stroke his symbionts with hands and mobile cabletips alike, assuring himself once again of their safety. “But now that we know that slagger is around, I don’t want any of you going out alone. You all stick close to me or to the other Autobots until we kick Soundwave’s aft off-planet, got it?”

“Don’t worry, guys,” Jazz added, rattling a canister of nanites meaningfully. “We’re keeping a sharp optic on him. Bluestreak and the others are gonna fill his aft with holes if he so much as twitches in your direction.” Which still didn’t discount the possibility that Soundwave was merely using himself as yet another distraction, while the Decepticon’s true objectives played out elsewhere. Still, no point in worrying Blaster or his crew about that now.

“Forget Bluestreak,” Steeljaw rumbled, blue optics narrowed. “*We’ll* fill him full of holes if he makes a play for any of our brothers. Or for anyone else, for that matter.” The golden bladeframe pushed his heavily-armored chassis forward, winding around Flipside and Blaster’s pedes protectively, the daggered blades of his sensor-spined mane clattering against their plating.

“Yes. Yes, I know,” said Flipsides softly, patting Steeljaw’s golden, flexing frame and Ramhorn’s heavy, violently pink plating. He drew a slow ventilation -- and then gave a startled little sneeze as Blaster set to carefully sprinkling him with one of Jazz’s containers of nanites. The tiny mechanisms latched eagerly onto any radioactive elements they could find, severing unstable subatomic particles in little bursts of heat and energy, both quickly consumed as the nanites spread. Rewind giggled, scooping more of the powder over Flipsides and Blaster both.

“Bright,” observed the Giant, tilting his enormous helm with birdlike curiosity. He held out a hand, watching as Jazz powdered his scorched palm. “Ho-garth?”

“He’s safe, don’t worry. Make sure ta give this stuff an hour to finish soaking in before you head over to see him, though. You don't wanna expose him ta too much radiation."

"Ra-di-ation," the Giant repeated, obviously consulting Google for more details. His big optics widened as he took in the information. "Hurt?" He blinked down at the powder, rubbing his palms together to spread the nanites.

"Well, not us, mostly. But it ain't real great for humans." Jazz reached up to dust more of the Giant's forearms, then started on his pedes.

The Giant glanced to where the tangle of symbionts around Blaster's legs had descended into a tangle of hugging, relieved chattering, and the occasional flung fistful of powder. "From space?" the Giant asked, patting his palms carefully over his helm while Jazz popped the lid on another canister.

"Yeah. Any time you travel unprotected and outside an atmosphere, you should do at least a little decontam before ya hang out with organics." Jazz frowned, trying to gauge the complicated, worried swirls of the Giant's field. While he was better at it than he used to be, they were still difficult to interpret. Their lexicon of the Giant’s color-language was still very primitive, despite Wheeljack and Smokescreen’s best efforts. "Hogarth's fine, as far as Ratchet could tell, so you didn't pick up too much radiation, however you got here. Or you were here for a while before ya met him."

"Oh," said the Giant, relief in the word, then blinked down at Eject. The symbiont had scaled his bent knee, his minimal weight and nimble digits allowing the tiny mech to avoid the worst of the Giant's injuries.

"Gotta do your back!" The symbiont piped. "Hey Jazz, throw me a-" Jazz obligingly tossed a canister up, and Eject dived for it, making a dramatic catch. “And he makes the touchdown!” he announced, faceplates spreading in a grin. “Victory lap!” Unlatching the canister, he began exuberantly tossing fistfuls of nanite powder over the broad gray surfaces of his knee-perch, then climbed higher, little fingers latching into barely visible seams and protrusions, inoculating as he went.

“Oh--let me help too,” Flipsides said, wiggling his way free of his cohort brothers and making for the Giant. “Your poor plating--it’s the least I can do.” Rewind wasn’t far behind, and between the three mechkin, the bemused Giant was soon holding carefully still for a trio of helper-bots intent upon dusting everything they could reach.

Jazz shook his helm. “Good thing the big guy’s had a lot of practice lettin’ bitty things climb on him over the last few years,” he remarked to Blaster, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“Yeah,” Blaster said. Both Steeljaw and Ramhorn had elected to remain safely on the ground, and he reached out, blunted digits smoothing possessively over the plating of the remaining members of his cohort. “It’s amazing. After everything that’s happened to the Giant--everything we did to his people--he still tries to protect us, every single time.” Blue optics looked soberly down at Jazz’s visored ones. “I’ll always be grateful for that, but … y’know, part of me wonders if we really deserve it.”

“Hmm, maybe not. Still, it’s his choice, yanno." Jazz reached out to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. With the close contact, he could better gauge the deep anxiety in the carrier's field, as well as the relief and joy of seeing his cohort safe, unharmed.

Jazz couldn't help wondering, though, how long that safety would last. With Soundwave on the planet and potential invaders on the horizon? It was starting to feel like the truce had never existed.

"And whether we deserve it or not," Jazz continued, tilting his head back to peer up at the sky and the space beyond it, "I’m kinda grateful the big guy is on our side.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It doesn’t matter how big and strong you are, you big idiot. There’s always something bigger that can kill you!” Ratchet turned away, his spark clenching in remembrance. The ancient memory-files Blaster had brought back had been bad enough, with their images of ancient Cybertronians tearing into the Giant’s kind. But worse were his own: memories of fire and destruction, of the gestalts and cityformers who had risen to fight against the encroaching darkness. Ratchet remembered how their great frames had shaken Cybertron down to its very core when they fell; remembered the dark halls and empty echoes where great sparks once lived, once cared for the smaller mecha in their charge.
> 
> Even giants could die.

At the outer reaches of a solar system, all existence is dictated by the sun.

At this distance, the sun is a cold star, little brighter than the billions that flood the galaxy. But here, in this place, its influence is everything, drawing the boundary of the heliosheath as starkly as the crest of foam across a wave, the solar wind on one side, the vast empty dark on the other. Magnetic bubbles and stagnations interrupt the solar wind, cast it into vortices and upwellings, invisible riptides that tug at space and time.

The endless waters of space were treacherous, here on the edge. But Cosmos had been forged to them, sparked for them. When forced into the grip of gravity wells, he naturally assumed his most compact form -- a simple disk, smooth and sleek and functional. But here, at the edge of this solar chasm, the boundary of heliostatic current and termination shock… here he could spread his sails.

Gossamer and gleaming, the pliable metal structures stretched a filum across, lobed like lungs, brilliant as butterfly wings, fractalline as snowflakes. The slightest angle adjustment served to correct his course, to gather solar plasma or to let it billow away. This place was his; he knew its ways, the bright trails and dark matter currents. Cosmos sailed the solar surf -- never lonely, yet ever alone.

Until now.

“Hello!” the odd little signal announced again. The binary blip of radio data was aimed roughly at the center of the solar system, at the pale blue dot over which so many sparks had been lost. To be honest, Cosmos couldn’t be sure it was really a greeting -- the sound could as easily have been “hey you!” or “where am I?” Or perhaps it was meaningless. And yet the bleep had an oddly determined air about it. It was also a tad lopsided. Cosmos doubted that most equipment on Earth could detect the message, whatever it was. But the mechanism, whatever it was, kept right on signaling. “Hello!” A pause. “Hello!”

Cosmos tilted one frond-like sail, turning in a thousand-filum sweep for another pass. The heliosphere boundary was vast… but Cosmos was patient, and his sensors keen. If anything larger than a grain of sand came within a billion filum of him, he would know.

On the other hand... out here, a billion filum wasn’t much at all. This might take a while.

That was all right. Cosmos had time.

“Hello!”

Twice, he was certain that he’d lost the signal. It was faint and tended to crackle, like a beacon left in the wake of a lost civilization. Then it returned, a quiet, determined chirp. Cosmos refocused his arrays, homing in on the primitive call. At this distance, slight adjustments were all he needed to change his trajectory to intersect with the source. He didn’t even need to burn his engines; from what he could tell, he was moving significantly faster than the other object and would overtake it easily. All he needed was time; Cosmos settled into a sweeping arc, trusting momentum and the solar wind that filled his sails to draw him towards his distant goal.

An orn or two later, the source of the call came into optical view. Tacking across the solar wake, Cosmos spiralled around the object as it trundled determinedly along, a tiny, primitive tortoise in the vast sea of interstellar space.

“Hello!” The blip was mechanically insistent, aimed at the device's distant home. Spindly and crude, with long-inert components left exposed to vacuum rather than shielded by protective casings, the little machine was homely, worn about the edges by its slow journey away from its home planet--and yet, Cosmos found himself unaccountably charmed by the ungainly mechanism. In a way, it was like looking at one of his own long-lost antecedents. Had Cybertron launched such primitive devices into its own solar system once, uncounted millennia ago?

“Hello,” Cosmos replied, field washed with warmth, knowing even as he did so that the device could not perceive him. He considered for a moment adjusting the device’s trajectory and giving it a gentle push back home, in order to return it to the humans that had so carefully crafted it. And yet... unsparked this device might be, but how could Cosmos deny it the opportunity to pursue its true function between the stars? To continue on its lonely sojourn? A glimmer of light seemed to confirm his decision, a round golden plate on the mechanism’s side coming into view.

Decoding the inscription and the spaced pits along the disk took barely a nanoklik, and Cosmos chirred in delight. No, he had been right. The humans, primitive as they were, still had adorned their device with their most valuable metal, had given it a name and inscribed a greeting for the stars before sending it on its way. Who was he to interrupt this Voyager’s journey?

"Hello!" The radio blip hiccuped.

But perhaps he could help it on its way? "What do you think, little traveler?" Cosmos murmured, banking to examine the beacon from all angles. Its metal was fragile with the radiation of deep space, electronics warmed and fed by three simple thermogenerators. The isotopes within were beginning to age, to judge by the steadily-declining electric current produced, and the gyro-referenced altitude control systems were a little scuffed. They’d likely wear down within the decivorn. Once that happened, the beacon would no longer be able to aim its antenna back at its distant world. “Can I top you up?”

“Hello!”

That sounded like permission to him. Cosmos stretched, freeing arms and hands from the tight fold of his central body-structure. He reached out with a cable, very carefully matching his course and speed to the little traveler’s. A bit of gentle probing, and he was in the simple system, exploring its lines and functions while his sails cupped gently around the fragile frame.

The generators hadn’t been built for easy access, but that was fine -- a trickle of reverse current and a few of Cosmos’s lasercore nanites took care of Voyager’s power problem, collecting ambient radiation to start a simple cold fusion chain running in parallel. The damaged radial ion measuring equipment and the worn gyros, however, required a more hands-on approach. Who had thought to leave all these wires exposed like this?

Cosmos was just sintering a conduit back together, when his cupped satellite fans registered Jazz’s transmission protocols. _*Anything cracklin’ in deep space?*_

It was good to hear the saboteur’s voice, even if each exchange of messages took several joors. Cosmos held the line open, thinking in his placid way about what to say.

“Hello!” Voyager’s greeting was significantly stronger now. As if to show just how much better it felt, the little beacon transmitted a data dump of its present operating conditions.

Cosmos laughed. “He’s not going to know what that means, sweetspark,” he told the mechanism fondly. Still, in a moment of whimsy, he let the transmission through. Jazz would be amused at the primitive data, and perhaps the humans would appreciate the unexpected message from their little traveller.

Still thinking about what to add--perhaps a joke about unexpected encounters?--Cosmos turned back to his task, patching the tiny mechanism together. And then… then he received a response. Not from Jazz--but an echo of the transmission he had just sent, warped and distorted into near-unintelligibility.

“What …?” he murmured to himself. Mindful of the other device’s fragile structures, he carefully began disentangling himself from the drone, even as he opened his sensory arrays to their widest possible ranges. Space--even interstellar space--was far from silent, especially for a mech designed to detect movement and energy across light-vorns of vacuum. Even as noisy as this system’s proto-civilization was, their signals were were easy to filter out, and far from sufficient to fill the wide expanse of space beyond their sun’s immediate influence. Which left the hiss of electrons as they washed past, the subtle music of wide-flung particles and subatomic collisions as background music to Cybertronian transmissions, ion trails, and …

… and an oddly silent patch of space, just outside what the humans called their ‘Kuiper Belt’, moving slowly between Cosmos and the little blue planet. Cosmos reflexively damped down on his own systems, reducing his energetic signature to a trickle. It did not take long for his scans to pull in even more data.

It was a transmission cloak: an energetic field designed to warp and reflect signals, to keep any trace of transmission from leaking out. Cosmos had seen them before, early in the war, but such fields were so energy-intensive, and so easy to disrupt, that they’d fallen into disuse as the war wore on and energon become scarce. This cloak was not precisely the same as the Cybertronian ones Cosmos had encountered-- it covered a different range of frequencies, for one--but there was no mistaking its effect. Or its size. Feeling about the edges of that dead zone, anxiety washed through Cosmos’ field. Whatever was generating the field was no tiny scout, no solitary explorer like himself. That cloak stretched for almost five light astroseconds--and while that might be a tiny dot in the endless expanse of space, it was more than large enough to hide an entire fleet of ships.

And whatever was hidden beneath that cloak… was headed on a course for Earth.

“Fair journey, Voyager,” Cosmos whispered, giving the drone one last gentle brush with his sails as he folded them, imparting a little more momentum to the beacon. Fold by fold, his great sails shrank, weaving back into the dense construction of his frame, until he was sleek and invisible against the black of startide.

Then he fired up his most stealthy reactors. There weren’t many reasons a fleet would try to stay so silent, or to hide their approach towards such a low-tech planet, and Cosmos didn’t like any of them. Given their head start, he wouldn’t be able to beat the invaders in -- not if he wanted to remain undetected.

But with luck, he might still be able to deliver a warning.

 

 

**********

 

 

“How long’s it been since your last defrag, Prowl?” Jazz leaned over a little more, hands splayed across the console, conveniently blocking Prowl’s view of the monitors. The image was the same as it had been joors before -- only the position of the sun had moved, so that the dark blue Cybertronian transport in the center cast shadows to the left instead of the right. Jazz had set the little mini-cameras up in the desert--they didn’t dare seed microdrones that close, much less anything more sophisticated--then gone to relieve Wheeljack from guard duty long enough for the engineer to attend to his singed and dented plating. “Don’t look like he’s doing much,” Jazz added, unnecessarily.

Prowl spared him a glance. “Soundwave need not physically *do* anything in order to cause trouble,” he noted, vocalizer flat. Thus, the reason Prowl hadn’t hooked into the camera feeds directly to handle the task on internal threads. Even at this distance, even buffered by cameras and protected by snipers who would open fire if Prowl gave the word, it was too dangerous to be in direct contact with any tech in Soundwave’s vicinity. “Now, if you’ve had entirely enough fun--”

“Fun?” Jazz pretended to consider the word. “I know your idea of a good time is bit oddball, Prowly, but I don’t think ‘fun’ is the right term for starin’ at Soundwave and listening to Bluestreak ramble on for fifteen joors straight.” He flared his plating in exaggerated irritation.

“Prowly?” Prowl gave him an unimpressed look.

“Prowlster? Prowlman? Prowlerrific?” Jazz quipped, earning himself an irritated vent from his target. “You know one of these days I’m going to find a nickname that sticks, right?”

“You have used that threat within my hearing at least 816 times this vorn, and despite using a multitude of variants in all the languages we have encountered, thus far have been entirely unsuccessful in finding an alternate designation. Perhaps it is time you should consider a new tactic if you wish to continue in your attempts to needle me,” Prowl said evenly.

“Aw, Prowlster. You get me so well.” Jazz dramatically splayed one hand over his spark. “But I’m just pullin’ your pigtails, my mech. You’re too single-threaded sometimes. I’d hate for you to end up like Red, chasin’ your own processors into knots.”

Prowl tilted his helm, effortlessly picking the real concern from behind the banter. “You believe I am focusing too much attention on Soundwave?”

“Weelll … I’m not sure that there’s such a thing as payin’ too much attention to Soundwave,” Jazz admitted. “That mech is as slippery as a razorsnake in an oilbath. But I think that starin’ at the camera feeds and stewin’ about all the ways he could be playin’ us isn’t going to do us a lot of good.” He looked up at the rough-hewn ceiling of the cavern, now liberally festooned with cabling and cobbled-together bits of Cybertronian tech. “Besides, aren’t you the one who’s always sayin’ that a mech’s plans are only as good as the data points behind ‘em?”

Prowl steepled the tips of his fingers, one of the few human mannerisms he'd picked up so far. Jazz couldn’t be certain whether that was a good thing or not -- Prowl had never sought to integrate himself into the cultures the Autobots came across, not the way most Cybertronians did. But Earth had a way of getting under a mech’s plating; perhaps Prowl was just as susceptible to the humans’ influence as the rest of them. “You believe you have detected faulty data behind Soundwave’s plans?”

“Huh? Not really my point, Prowlness Everdeen. Prowly Potter?”

Prowl leveled him an unimpressed look, field coiled whipcord-tight.

Jazz heaved a theatrical vent. “I’m just sayin’ this whole mess don’t look like it’s gonna clear up anytime soon. And until we have more data to feed ya, whatever plans we come up with? Ain’t going to put much of a dent in anyone else’s.”

Prowl tilted his helm the barest fraction. “Perhaps we need to reconsider our stance on holding one of Soundwave’s symbionts hostage, then.”

“Ahh … no. Not unless you got one already hidden in your subspace.” The idea was logical enough, and it might even get them some answers, if they were careful… and very, very lucky. But prying a symbiont away from an angry carrier was hard enough. Add to that the potential consequences to the humans of escalating their present standoff, the breach of the ceasefire with Megatron, Optimus Prime’s disapproval, the chances that Soundwave would lie, and the very real probability that Blaster would snap and murder them all if they threatened a symbiont in his presence, and you ended up with one Very Bad Idea.

“I do not. I have not taken a cassetticon into subspace custody since galactic date 326.4672.12,” Prowl stated.

To this day, even after countless megavorn spent fighting side-by-side, Jazz still had a hard time telling whether Prowl was joking. The mech had a poker face that couldn’t be beat, and a mastery over his field that rivalled that of any Spec Ops mech. “Well, that’s a relief. We got enough problems ta deal with without Soundwave beatin’ down our door to retrieve one of his minions.”

“Such an action would be unlikely in the extreme,” Prowl commented, returning his attention to the holoscreens. “Soundwave typically favors more subtle stratagems. I am concerned, however, that thus far we have seen only three of his five symbionts. Buzzsaw and Laserbeak are both unaccounted for.”

“Yeah, I’d noticed that too. I checked with Red, and so far he hasn’t spotted them anywhere in the vicinity. But that doesn’t mean much; those little fraggers are too damn good at stayin’ out of sight. They could be tucked up safely inside Sounders--or they could be cruising thermals half a world away. Until they make their move, there’s no way to know.”

“Yes. Despite our human allies, the Decepticons still have the advantage when it comes to aerial surveillance.” Both of them knew that Sky Spy and microdrones only went so far; and when it came to spotting canny and experienced cassetticons, human tech was next to useless.

Prowl’s observation was devoid of bitterness, a simple observation of fact--but Jazz could still hear something else underneath it. He gave the other mech a long look, gauging the tiny edge flickers of Prowl’s tightly-controlled field. “Yanno … now that the Aerialbots are back, you could ask one of them to take ya up,” he suggested. The words were casual, but he made no effort to hide the concern behind them, even as he noted the minute, defensive stiffening of the other mech’s doorwings. “I know ya miss it, and it might do ya some good. Help ‘clear your head’, as the humans like to say.”

Those white-armored, taloned hands paused for a moment over the communication boards. Then Prowl shook his helm. “I appreciate the suggestion,” he said quietly. “But it would not be the same.”

Jazz regarded his friend; taking in the other mech’s stillness, the rigid line of those backplates. Then he shook his helm, allowing Prowl to feel his regret/agreement, his support. They had all lost a great deal of what they once had been, in the war. Sometimes, all you could do was live with what remained.

“No ... I suppose it wouldn’t be.”

 

 

*********

 

 

“You.” Ratchet scowled up at the Giant’s placid features. “Why is it that every time I turn around, I’m patching you up? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: You. Are. Not. A. Warframe. I don’t care how thick your armor is--you aren’t slagging invulnerable!”

He paced around the big mech, scanning the slowly-healing surface damage, his scowl deepening as the results came back. “You’re just lucky that your armor seams are designed to interlock when attacked, and that those aliens weren’t using anything bigger. It doesn’t matter how big and strong you are, you big idiot. There’s always something bigger that can kill you!” Ratchet turned away, his spark clenching in remembrance. The ancient memory-files Blaster had brought back had been bad enough, with their images of ancient Cybertronians tearing into the Giant’s kind. But worse were his own: memories of fire and destruction, of the gestalts and cityformers who had risen to fight against the encroaching darkness. Ratchet remembered how their great frames had shaken Cybertron down to its very core when they fell; remembered the dark halls and empty echoes where great sparks once lived, once cared for the smaller mecha in their charge.

Even giants could die.

“You need to listen to him, Giant,” Hughes added, his weathered face also folded into a worried frown. The elderly human was currently cupped in one blunt-fingered hand, close to the Giant’s chest, Anjali watching them both from a nearby gantry. He patted his friend’s gray armor. “You aren’t a gun, remember? You need to let the Autobots protect you.”

That round helm tilted down, white optics glowing from soot-streaked faceplates as they regarded his human friends. “I am not a gun,” the Giant agreed. “I choose.” That white gaze turned to Ratchet. “Ho-garth is small. Auto-bots also. I pro-tect.”

Primus save him from stubborn mecha. “You’re as bad as Optimus,” Ratchet snapped. “We’re not helpless, you know. You want to protect us? Then get out of the way and let the warframes do their slagging jobs!” A gentle white-armored hand settled on his pauldron, and Ratchet glanced over, meeting First Aid’s worried blue gaze. “This is no time for sentimentality, Aid,” he snapped, ignoring the peanut gallery--Que, Mikaela, and Flip Sides--that hovered uncertainly near the entrance of the medbay, their amusement/worry/indecision prickling at the edges of his temper. “This is the third slagging time he’s run straight into the line of fire! One of these days something’s going to get past that armor of his, something none of us is going to be able to fix. Then where will we be?”

Or worse, the next attack might trigger the big mech’s deeply buried battle protocols and turn him into a weapon once more. Ratchet had seen the after-action reports from Prowl and the others; it had almost happened this time. Would have happened, if not for Soundwave. And who knew what else that sparkless mech had done to the Giant at the same time?

“You can’t stop a spark from being what it is, Ratchet,” Que offered hesitantly.

“Well, if he wants to keep his slagging spark intact, then he needs start using his processor,” Ratchet shot back. He pointed a hand -- the one currently transformed into a complex needler and heat treatment array -- at his new target. “And if you’re going to hang around and offer platitudes, then you can make yourself useful and go get me a new canister of B134 solder. Out of my way.”

Ratchet stomped around one of the Giant’s pedes, to one of the enormous shin plates. The armor there was slagged, the surface scorched and half-melted. The damage was extensive, though not deep, Ratchet discovered as he prepped the area for treatment. Even Skywarp’s attack a few months ago hadn’t done as much damage. Why? The weapons of these alien slavers were unusual, yes. Data from the alien attack suggested their weapons had a higher microwave output but far less shearing, explosive, or penetrating power than most Cybertronian ordnance. Which was a good thing as far as the Autobots were concerned: the construction of Cybertronian armor, and the nanites and coding that went with it, allowed a mech to simply ignore most energy weapons. Lasers, radiation, infrared, and even particle-based weaponry -- while it was certainly possible to engineer something high-powered or exotic enough to damage a Cybertronian, most conventional wave-based weaponry was barely more than an annoyance to a healthy mech.

The Giant, however, did not seem to have the same kind of protection. The aliens’ blasts had thoroughly cooked the Giant’s own primitive nanite population, impeding his repair mechanisms and somehow keeping him from the miraculous kind of healing they’d witnessed before. It was baffling, made no sense: what good would it do the slavers to have their war machine both enraged and badly damaged? Suppressing the urge to snarl, Ratchet continued pre-treating the damaged area.

A huge fingertip carefully touched Ratchet’s back, interrupting his assessment. “Auto-bots small,” the Giant rumbled, looking down at Hogarth. His gaze turned deliberately towards Wheeljack and First Aid, before returning to Ratchet. “Hatch-lings small. Giant big. Big always pro-tect small.” The words were solemn, the Giant intent, as if willing Ratchet to understand, and with them he sent a cascade of Earth-images: a flurry of pictures of juvenile humans, of other subadult organics, being held, sheltered, protected by their larger progenitors. And then images from his own memory: hatchlings tucked away in the protective cavities of Decepticon groundframes, Optimus’ gentle care with the smaller mecha around him, of Ratchet’s own attempt to shield the humans from Skywarp’s attack.

“Ho-garth give name,” he said, his free hand rising to splay against his chestplate. “I am Giant. Giant protect small, always.” The Giant’s faceplates shifted, optic shutters and the simple hinged jaw rising up into a smile. “Like Su-perman.”

Ratchet stared, flabbergasted. “Superman? Wha--” A astrosecond of searching the internet gave him the answer. A mythical hero of Earth. One granted improbable powers by this system’s unremarkable sun, who disguised himself with bright colors. A hero … and an alien, outcast from a dead world, who had found a new home on this one. Who had devoted himself to protecting it, and its inhabitants, even from themselves.

“It’s called ‘fiction’ for a reason,” Ratchet groused, his transformed hands pressed to the Giant’s plating, the fine molecular knives of his derma-pliers sifting through the layers of the Giant’s resident nanites, assessing and repairing on a quantum level. This simple manipulation produced terabytes of data -- everything from the precise layout of the nanite matrix, the level of infiltration into the armor, the type of micropores these populations preferred, and a million other details. If he made *this* small coding insertion, applied *this* base grid, tailored the nanites just so…. then he’d have to resurface at least three subdermal layers, in which case….

Reflexively, Ratchet opened up the Giant’s medical files, making annotations as he worked through the problem. One set of glyphs gave him pause, a grim reminder. He’d been told to look for weaknesses in the Giant’s defenses -- and Ratchet had identified a gaping one. The course he was now contemplating might deprive the Autobots of a very needed advantage. The old medic hesitated.

The Giant blinked his huge white optics, looking slowly between Hogarth, the rest of the Autobots, and Ratchet. “Sto-ries, not real,” he acknowledged at last, field flaring with all the multitudinous colors of ‘family.’ “But still true. Still import-ant.”

“I--” Faced with the Giant’s steadfast determination, Ratchet could not find it in his spark to disillusion him. “Fine,” he huffed. Who was he to argue with a mech’s chosen function? But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t exercise his. He might not be able to prevent the big mech from running into the line of fire, but if he colonized the Giant’s nanites with more modern Cybertronian ones, at least he could ensure that the Giant would be better defended against any future attacks. “Then hold still. Because I’ll be slagged if I’m going to let those Pit-spawns win. If you’re so determined to be in the line of fire, then I’m damn well going to make sure you can take whatever they try to throw at you. First Aid, get over here; I’m going to need another pair of hands.”

 

 

**********

 

 

The Autobots had just one conference chamber large enough to handle all the newly-arrived officers in all their various sizes, as well as the gantries and other adaptations required to bring humans to optic-height. It had once been a storage space for the heaviest human machinery ever to carve away the earth, containing drills with fifteen-foot bores, tier four articulating trucks, center dump haul units, mass excavators, and a host of others. The oil of their primitive engines still darkened the poured-stone flooring, and their long-dissipated fumes had stained the vaulted ceiling with a tarry patina.

Someone had evidently attempted to remedy the drab environs with the application of optic-searing orange paint. Newer construction was a maze of wiring, cables, struts, monitors, and consoles, some of them also painted. That industrious and orange-loving individual, however, had either run out somewhere around the thirty-foot mark, or been unable to reach higher, because the color ended in a line roughly level with the top of Optimus Prime’s helm fins.

Others had climbed higher, however, and had mapped out the shadowed recesses of ventilation shafts and drapes of cabling with consummate precision. They had left behind the markers of their calling: static interrupters, traps for the unwary and the wary alike, near-invisible cameras. They knew what the painter did not -- that the darkness above afforded an unparalleled view of the proceedings below.

The winged, Laserbeak reflected, picking idly at the neatly-dissected corpse of a tiny motion sensor, knew this best of all. Hunkered down neatly in the newly-created blindspot, the flightframe was nearly invisible, his field muted and dark plating expertly camouflaged to match the shadows. The betraying gleam of his four scarlet optics carefully dimmed, the lenses within focused down upon the activity below, audials intent upon the war council taking place.

The group below had a surprising number of humans in attendance. Sam was there, of course, along with Epps and Lennox, both of whom had been among the first to respond to the incursion, along with the rest of NEST. General Morshower, however, was also there in person, having flown into Nellis only hours before, along with the base commander, Colonel Raines. Both of them were stone-faced, obviously unhappy with the situation. Mearing, attending via holotank imaging, didn’t look much better, hollow-eyed and tight-lipped, as if ready to chew her subordinates--or an unsuspecting Autobot--in half.

The Autobot command staff, minus Ratchet, made up the rest of council, with Optimus taking the lead. With all the new arrivals, that group was not nearly as small as it once had been. Kup had taken Bumblebee’s place at the table, much to the infiltrator’s relief. Jazz, Prowl, Red Alert, Blaster, Springer, Silverbolt, and Hot Spot had all arranged themselves about the holotank, sitting or standing wherever there was space; Silverbolt and Hot Spot both having to do a bit more squeezing than the rest.

Optimus looked down at the humans. For both safety and convenience’s sake, Sam and the others were sitting around a smaller table of their own, the human-scaled furniture set up on a platform overhanging the holotank, just below optic-height for most of the Autobots.

“-how can you be so sure this isn’t another Decepticon attack?” Morshower was asking, his face folded into a worried scowl. “What if they’re just using these things--whatever they are--as a front?”

“That is a possibility,” Prowl replied evenly, unperturbed by the accusatory nature of the statement. “However, the chances of Megatron using such a tactic are improbably low. Megatron was never one for making alliances with species he deemed inferior. For him to stoop to using a third party in an attack would be an admission of weakness; one I do not believe he could afford at this juncture. This is assuming he could find an intelligent species with which to ally, as most civilizations in the local cluster group are far too wary of Cybertronians in general and Decepticons in specific to enter into such an alliance. Intimidation is far more likely in such an instance, but again, this would require the expenditure of resources that neither the Autobots nor the Decepticons currently have.” Taloned digits tapped consideringly along the rim of the holotank. “This attack was also far too weak to effectively target well-armed Cybertronians. In addition, it placed Soundwave in harm’s way. There is little reason for Megatron to use such inefficient tactics when he has Decepticon warframes to hand, and even less reason for Soundwave, as Megatron’s spymaster and third-in-command, to risk himself or his cohort by being caught between ourselves and the attackers.”

“Unless he arranged it that way, to try an’ get us to take him in,” Springer muttered, scowling. Soundwave hadn’t done a single damn thing that they could detect, hadn’t even moved other than to shift his solar panels to follow the course of the sun. Wheeljack had cobbled together several longwave blockers, devices that *should* keep Soundwave from communicating with Autobot-controlled satellites. Whether they would work, whether Soundwave was subtly hacking every damn network on the planet even now … they just didn’t know.

“A possibility,” Prowl allowed. “But it does not negate the rest of the evidence that this was an attack by a third party. In addition, these creatures bear slave-brands, and are almost entirely unknown to the Autobots.”

“Alright, let me get this straight,” Mearing rubbed at her temples. Her voice was clear and low from the holotank. “A new alien race is taking potshots at Autobots and irradiated the hell out of a good chunk of Nevada in the process.”

“Most of the radiation was derived from your planet’s own Van Allen belts,” Perceptor corrected. Technically still on watch as one of Soundwave’s sniper-deterrants, he was also connected to the war council via the holotank. “and is well-within our capabilities to--”

Mearing didn’t seem to hear. “Meanwhile, you presently have the second-in-command--”

“Third,” Prowl supplied.

“--of the entire Decepticon forces camped out next door to the embassy, still active, unrestrained, and undamaged, free to roll off at any time and cause God-knows-what kind of damage?”

“Defense Secretary Mearing,” Optimus lifted his helm, every inch the Prime. “Soundwave remains under heavy guard, and has vowed to cause no harm to your race. We believe his presence is unconnected to the alien incursion.”

“You’ll forgive me if that isn’t exactly reassuring,” Mearing snapped, turning to accept a stack of papers from a pair of disembodied hands -- an aide mostly outside the pickup range of the holotank receivers. “You might not be capable of adequately neutralizing a Decepticon, but we have the facilities for exactly that.”

Jazz winced as EM fields all around him spiked with anger. “Ya mean the same way ya kept Megatron under wraps, yeah?”

Mearing templed her fingertips over her stack of papers. “Unless you’ve reconsidered your stance on providing us with weapons? Then yes. We can make sure the Decepticon is cut off from networks, so that he can’t pull the kind of tricks he did yesterday morning. And with our cold storage capabilities--”

“Cold storage capabilities and lockdown measures that have repeatedly proven ineffective against Decepticon saboteurs,” Prowl pointed out. “Freezing Megatron only worked as long as it did due to the relative lack of Cybertronian activity on this planet, as well as Megatron’s own stasis, which prevented him from sending a distress call before he was immobilized. Once Decepticons began full-scale operations on Earth, you stood no chance of keeping him contained.”

“And it only worked on Bumblebee because he was under orders not to hurt any of ya,” Jazz added, faceplates folded into a scowl at the memory. “Trust me, Soundwave isn’t gonna give humans that chance. ‘Specially after what happened in Chicago.” He leaned forward, a blue-visored gaze looking down at Mearing’s image. “We gave the Allspark shard to your military to keep safe, and ya couldn’t even manage that. Face it--you have about as much chance of holdin’ on to Soundwave as ya do a phase-shiftin’ turbofox.”

Mearing scowled right back at him. “If you think--”

“Regardless of whether the humans have the facilities to hold a Cybertronian,” Optimus interrupted, diverting the burgeoning argument, “we cannot hand over Soundwave. He has surrendered into Autobot custody. Any mistreatment of prisoners will break the terms of our truce with Megatron. That is a risk that I am not prepared to take, Secretary Mearing; both for the sake of Earth as well as my own people. As for issuing Cybertronian weaponry--”

“It would be premature to arm the local populace, when we do not know the scale of the current threat,” Prowl put in, immune as always to Mearing’s displeasure.

“Maybe so, but if we wait until these ... whatever-they-are’s get here, it might be too late,” General Morshower put in, tapping his forefinger on the table to emphasize the point. “They’ve already caught us flat-footed once. And it’s pretty damn obvious that it doesn’t matter how fast we scramble, not when we’re trying to compete with *teleporting* aliens.”

Colonel Raines nodded in agreement. “We had pilots on the tarmac within five minutes, but by that point, the Autobots were already fully engaged with the enemy. The earliest they could have had air support from Nellis would have been within ten minutes of the aliens’ arrival,” she said grimly. “If they had targeted Nellis instead, or a populated area … we would not have been able to get in the air in time.”

Morshower looked over at Mearing. “We may need to consider raising the DEFCON alert level, Defense Secretary. But even if we do, we’re still dealing with very real technological limitations.”

“I am aware of that, believe me,” Mearing replied testily. “Which is why we need those weapons, Optimus. The U.S. has the largest military on the planet, and we still couldn’t possibly field enough ground artillery to defend every major city we have. Once they get within nuclear missile range, our options become very limited indeed. And as the battle of Chicago proved, conventional ordnance has not proven to very effective against alien ships.” She leaned forward, looking squarely at Optimus. “Right now, our only options are either to allow alien attackers to kill U.S. citizens with impunity, or to risk killing large numbers of our own people with weaponry never designed to be deployed in close proximity to civilian populations. I do not think I need to tell you, Optimus, that this is not a choice the President wishes to make.”

“In that, we are in agreement, Secretary Mearing,” Optimus said, the words solemn. “But we must weigh this new threat most carefully before embarking on such a course.” His blue gaze swept the assembled council, taking in Autobots and humans alike. “Humans and Cybertronians, for all our different origins, are very similar. We are all capable of great things--and great evils.” That electric blue gaze dropped, focussing upon Mearing’s image. “We allowed our weapons, our war, to reduce Cybertron to a cinder. I do not wish to see that fate visited upon Earth. If the Autobots can defend Earth without resorting to such measures, then I believe this may be the best option available to us.”

“And if your people can’t?” Mearing said, refusing to quail under the weight of Optimus’ regard.

“Then Primus help us all, Secretary Mearing. We will do what is necessary, and hope that the humans possess the wisdom not to repeat our mistakes.” There was a ripple of mixed emotion around the cavern at that, flickering from one field to the next, a frisson of _doubt/uncertainty/resolve_ imperceptible to the humans. Optimus, however, stood firm, his words resolute. “In the meantime, we must learn about this new threat and institute what defensive measures we can. Starscream’s faction has been making regular supply runs in-system, as per our agreement. Perhaps they, along with Skyfire, can be persuaded to scout--

“Optimus.” Blaster interrupted, his voice urgent. “I don’t think we’re gonna have time for that. Teletraan’s picking up something from Cosmos, and it doesn’t sound like good news.” He pinged their Prime with a synopsis of the message.

“Route it through the holotank receivers, Blaster,” Optimus replied, faceplates folding down into a frown. “Mearing and the others will need to hear this as well.”

 _“Jazz? Jazz, I hope to Primus you get this--I’m picking up some odd signatures out here. It’s a transmission cloak, one big enough for a fleet, and it’s moving in-system fast. It’s already past the eighth planet; there’s no way I’m going to beat it in. At their current speed, they’ll be there in less than a cycle.”_ There was a pause, the subtle crackle of subspace static filling the dead air.

_“Jazz, Blaster, you need to tell Optimus. Tell him to warn the humans. I don’t know who they are or what they want, but they’re coming….”_


	24. Chapter 24

Fourteen thousand feet above sea level, winter came early on the Takht-e-Soleiman mountain massif. This close to the Caspian sea, the air curdled with moisture, lapping up the sides of the peaks until they seemed like islands in the midst of a chill sea.

The cold and the humidity, however, were nothing to a mech, even to badly-injured grounders whose release had been so recently won from the Autobots. The dirt and the dust were bigger annoyances -- though still not half so bad as semi-stasis in some warehouse, getting poked at, picked over and Primus knew what else by squishies.

Splitshift leaned back on his hands, firmly terminating that thread. No use thinking about it now, even if the very thought made any sane mech’s plating crawl. He was here now, safe--as safe as a grounder ever got around ‘Screamer, anyway--with nothing to do but keep an audial on the organics’ channels and an optic on the next generation of Decepticon warframes.

So far the hatchlings -- round-framed and growing harder to corral by the joor -- didn’t seem to mind the cold. Or the dirt, to judge by the way they were flinging it up as they squabbled over the remains of a thoroughly-disassembled Land Rover. The uniformed, arrogant little squishies who’d ridden it up here probably hadn’t intended to leave it as tribute, but that was just bad luck for them, now wasn’t it? Too bad there was so much mist; without it, he might still be able to spot the humans walking down the mountain. Pathetic fraggers.

Splitshift still couldn’t tell what the Autobits saw in the damned things. Humans were stupid, and ridiculously squishy, without a decent plate of armor in the entire lot of them. Not to mention *noisy* -- he envied the hatchlings. They, at least, didn’t have comm receivers good enough to pick up all this caterwauling. And they certainly wouldn’t be ordered to jack those receivers up to maximum on an exposed ridgeline like this! Blah blah this and blah blah that and Decepticon alien invasion and…

... wait a minute. Bits of military vehicle scattered everywhere as the hatchlings alerted to the sudden tension in their watcher’s field, bristling like tiny replicas of their far-larger brethren as they glared around in search of the threat. A yellow and white Seekerling crammed the Land Rover’s steering wheel over his pointy little helm, apparently in an attempt to look even more fierce. Splitshift vented a sigh and heaved himself to his pedes, stumbling as malfunctioning gears caught and jerked.

He steadied himself with a fist against a heavy rock outcropping. “Come on, ya little fraggers,” he muttered, armor flaring wide to provide a multitude of hatchling-sized hiding spots. “And you -- frag me, that’s not a hat! You take that wheel off Right Now. Slag it--get over here! Yer creator’s gonna want to hear about this.”

 

 

**********

 

 

Cosmos’ warning swept the world, and Iran was far from the only nation to react. Never before in the history of the human race had the entire planet been faced with such a threat, nor reacted to it with such concerted response.

Mission City, Washington D.C., Chicago: they had all taught the Pentagon hard lessons. The threat of alien invasion no longer left room for negotiation, for Congressional inertia or bargaining. Mearing didn’t waste any time, and once briefed, neither did the President. The edict came down via the Joint Chiefs: for the first time in U.S. history, the U.S. Strategic Command went to DEFCON 1.

The rest of the U.S. unified combat commands were close behind, most staging at DEFCON 2. Military commanders around the world frantically worked to prepare for an imminent attack. National Guard reserves mobilized, directed towards the protection of their closest major population centers, and domestic agencies were folded into the effort, even as Homeland Security issued its own alerts, raising its threat level.

Outside the U.S., the news caught hold, transmitted across the globe with the speed of the electrons that carried it. Speculations and hasty conferences were made, warnings sent on radio waves, in secret communiques. Ripples of panic and fear spread outward in their wake, touching everything. The threat could not be kept a secret; Optimus himself had ensured that the U.N. learned of the alien force approaching Earth almost as soon as Mearing did. Russia, China, Great Britain, the European Union, Egypt … whether or not they fully believed the warning, the entire world had seen what aliens could do when bent on destruction. Human memories might be short-lived, but the ruins of what had once been one of the great pyramids of Giza, the cratered devastation that was still downtown Chicago, the deaths of thousands: all of these were fresh wounds, raw reminders of what could happen.

There were a few--very few--nations that resisted. Some were too isolated to believe anything from the outside, too stubborn or cynical to heed the warning. A handful looked towards their neighbors with an eye to profiting from the chaos, and stonewalled with talk of negotiations and treaties. But they were the exceptions, not the rule. Even countries that had avoided the fallout from the Cybertronians’ civil war had taken the lessons of their neighbors to heart. Like a building wave, the nations of the world mobilized. Satellites were re-tasked, commands activated.  Alerts and warnings were issued, and Earth’s weapons and eyes lifted to the sky.

As it turned out, Cosmos had underestimated how long it would take the cloaked invaders to reach Earth. The fleet--if that indeed was what it was--did not appear to realize it had been detected, despite the number of transmissions directed its way in a thousand different languages. Perhaps it didn’t care. Regardless, it continued on its course, a slow, implacable trajectory towards the inner planets that took the better part of four days.

The Autobots and their human allies used that time to lay plans and shore up their defenses: checking and shielding Sky Spy, launching the Axalon and the Xantium into Earth orbit, working with NEST and the U.N. Security Council on how to stage for the quickest possible response to any new attacks. But their limited numbers worked against them; each ship could afford only the barest skeleton crew, with Axalon’s AI and Teletraan working in tandem to make up for the lack. Despite all the recent arrivals, the Autobots simply didn’t have enough mecha to defend an entire planet.

If they had learned of this enemy earlier …. If they had been able to mobilize, to ambush them before they had gotten so far in-system, to harry them away from the planet, they might have stood a chance. But they hadn’t. Now they could only position their limited resources as best they could, keep lines of communication open… and wait.

 

 

*********

 

 

Four days later, the invaders launched their attack.

It was not the worst case scenario--that had been bombardment from near Earth orbit--but it was bad enough. The invaders, this time, did not target the Giant, or the Autobots.

They targeted the humans. Specifically, their infrastructure.

The Watervliet arsenal in New York was the first to fall, along with the secret databanks hidden underneath the aging installation. The alien ships hit it fast and hard, even as the Autobots were still attempting find a channel on which the main body of invaders would respond. Waves of black droneships filled the sky, raining plasmic hellfire upon the facility and the quiet little town surrounding it. Emergency evacuations were ordered within minutes, aging weaponry pressed into service as the humans fought back … but it wasn’t enough. The alien attackers were too fast, the few human defenders hopelessly outmatched.

In the twenty-nine minutes it took the Axalon to re-enter the atmosphere and decimate the bulk of the invading unit, a two-mile radius had been blasted flat.

There was nothing left of the arsenal. Every structure had been leveled, the ground barren and black.  Thousands were dead. Nothing survived but a few cellphone videos, taken from a distance.

Watervliet wasn’t the last. New attacks had been launched before the first was even complete, a new one every twelve-point-nine minutes, squadrons of droneships teleporting into missile range in Israel, India, China, Russia, Iraq, Iran, the U.S., and more. The more heavily armed the nation was, the more likely it was to be attacked. The invaders targeted power grids, telecommunications, sweeping a wave of destruction across the Earth. Dams, power plants, cell towers and communications hubs… within days all of them were under attack, a dozen incursions at a time, each strike more lethal, more crippling than the last.

Braced as they had been for attacks on major population centers and military installations, humans and Autobots both found themselves caught short, scrambling to respond as entire cities went dark.

 _//Slaggitall! Whoever’s controlling these fraggers is smart,//_ Jazz spat, leaning out of the rear hatch of the C-5 to fire at a nearby sweep of droneships as they zipped by. Targeting was difficult; the droneships were embroiled in a rather one-sided dogfight with a squadron of F-16s, who weren’t anywhere as resistant to Autobot firepower as the ships they were pursuing. Jazz’s own transport was pathetically slow in comparison, no match for the ferocious dogfight that was being fought on all sides. Still, it was faster than trying to pursue flying opponents in a groundbound alt.

 _//It is standard methodology for planetary invasions,//_ Prowl disagreed mildly, the furious hum of his tactical calculations flickering data through the Autobot tacnet, projections and new commands sent at the speed of thought. _//Their tactics are not particularly creative, though their fleet is obviously providing command and control of the battlefield, allowing for faster adaptation to changing conditions.//_ Faster than anything the humans could manage, Jazz couldn’t help but think. The organics certainly didn’t lack for bravery--in fact, the more the humans had their backs to the wall, the more pissed off and bloody-minded they seemed to get. Their technological handicaps, on the other hand … well. There was just no way for them to move firepower far enough, fast enough. And every time the invaders punched their way through the Earth’s protective electromagnetic mantle, they brought their radioactive miasma with them.

The aliens, unlike the Decepticons, weren’t trying to recover any artifacts, or occupy any strategic points. They meant to level them all.

 _//The Three Gorges Dam is gone,//_ Silverbolt reported, his glyphs echoing with unhappy regret. _//I’m sorry, Prowl--the Chinese couldn’t hold them off long enough for us to get there.//_

_//Acknowledged.//_

_//They got Itaipu, too,//_ Blades reported. _//We’re doing damage control for the flooding as best we can, but--//_

 _//Negative. The humans will need to handle rescue efforts. We need you on the front lines.//_ Prowl’s reply was immediate and allowed no room for argument; predictably, the Protectobots tried anyway.

 _//Sir, there are thousands of humans here trapped by flooding. They’ll die if we don’t--//_ Hot Spot this time, glyphs laden with modifiers of _respect/stubborn disagreement._

_//Understood. Millions more will die if we do not deflect these incursions. Skyfire is in your hemisphere; he will reroute for pickup.//_

_//Could use some help here too,//_ Jazz said, unhappy at the admission. Two lone Autobots -- one airborne, but only by virtue of hitching a ride with the humans -- against a dozen invading drones was going to mean a lot of collateral damage. They’d take out this bunch eventually, but what would be left? _//We’re holding the line at the Grand Coulee dam, but they’ve already popped a couple of transfer stations.//_ Bluestreak was doing his best from the ground, taking out droneships with pinpoint precision, his commentary running as a tertiary thread in the background of Jazz’s comms, a focused litany of trajectories and target-locks. But while Blue never failed to miss his mark, there was no way the two of them could field the kind of massed firepower they needed to beat back their attackers quickly enough.

 _//...Negative, Jazz,//_ Prowl replied immediately. Through the tacnet, Jazz could practically hear the statistics and probabilities ticking through the mech’s tactical processors, fast as light itself. _//The McNary dam stands an 83% chance of being struck within the next eight invader infiltrations.//_

 _//Fragitall,//_ Jazz hissed, leaning out of the hatch as the big transport plane hung a sharp right, engines roaring. The McNary wasn’t a large dam, but it was upriver. If it went, then the resultant wave might very well take out everything downriver, including the Grand Coulee. If there was anything left of the Grand Coulee. And… _//Wait, is that the one with the--//_

 _//The backstart generators? Affirmative.//_ Some of the humans’ power generators had been retooled with Cybertronian technology. Most had not. That meant, in the event of a large-scale power grid outage, they would require a live current to bootstrap startup. If the McNary went down, the timetable for recovering power in this region would stretch by days… or weeks.

 _//Prowl, we’re not going to clear this squad in time, not if we have to-- Primus!//_ Jazz ducked back as a spray of micro-energy bolts sizzled past, burning holes the size of Jazz’s fist through the thin aluminum skin over the C-5’s rudder controls. A mottled drone came around in an agile turn… close enough for Jazz to lob one of his favorite little rocket grenades right up its intake. Five astroseconds, four...

_//Acknowledged. Kup and Arcee are en route--//_

Jazz took a few potshots at another invader, making it jink and weave as it altered its flightpath to avoid the slugs. Three, two. _//That’s going to pull our coverage from Manitoba to Alberta--//_

Prowl said nothing. With a thundering *boom*, the grenade-tagged drone exploded, taking the second off-course drone right along with it. “Take that, you stupid slaggers!” Jazz snarled in satisfaction. He consulted the tacnet, effortlessly combining multiple inputs, watching the dogfight split, the bulk of the invaders making a wide sweep to the east. “Take us around, up above the dam!” he called back up to the pilots, switching to the human channels.

White-faced and determined, one of them nodded, giving him a thumbs up. “Yes, sir!”

The C-5 banked hard, the plane groaning as they pitched to the left in a steep turn. Jazz fired off another volley, trying to harry a droneship hard on the tail of a F-16, but his angle was off. The droneship fired, and the F-16 exploded into a ball of flame and broken metal. “Slaggin’, rust-humpin’ pieces of--!”

If they had one small bit of luck in this entire clusterfrag, it was that the droneships didn’t seem to recognize or care about the human pilots who managed to eject before their planes were destroyed. Perhaps the humans simply didn’t register as a threat. Either way, pilots who ejected were ignored; short of getting accidentally caught in the crossfire, most made it to the ground.

But the pilot of this particular ill-fated F-16 had never gotten the chance to escape. And he or she wasn’t alone--around the world, human pilots were dying in droves, and the droneships didn’t seem to notice or care about their own losses. The Autobots had carved through almost a thousand droneships, the humans even more… and they just kept coming, wave after wave, almost four new strikes an hour for the last forty hours, with no sign of any reprieve.

 _//Jazz--we cannot win a global engagement without cost,//_ Prowl reminded him, his glyphs carefully dispassionate, hiding the frustration and the grief that Jazz could feel lying underneath. _//At best, all we can do is protect the largest population centers.//_ He didn’t say what they all knew. That without a direct assault on the main fleet, they were reduced to a war of attrition--and while the Autobots might be able to win such a war, their far more fragile human allies would not. Not before their civilization, perhaps their very planet, was irreparably damaged.

But a direct assault on the alien fleet, only now entering the inner solar system, would also leave the humans undefended. It would take days for even the Axalon to pick up enough momentum to get a force out there. “Slagged if you do, slagged if you don’t,” Jazz growled, and took great satisfaction in blowing another droneship to tiny ship-bits. The F-16 it had been chasing pitched down into a steep dive. Taking advantage of the opening, it fired missiles at another trio from above, screaming between them in a display of nearly-Cybertronian precision flying. Jazz pitched his vocalizer into an admiring, humanlike whistle. “Nice shootin’, Tex!” he called out over the Air Force frequency.

All the while, though, the seconds ticked away. The sixteen-point-three minute mark passed. _//Salt Lake City, Utah. NSA monitoring facility,//_ Prowl reported. The next place to be invaded. A teleportation vortex was probably already forming above the site -- located mere miles from the largest concentration of humans in the state. The entire tacnet could taste the astrosecond of hesitation as Prowl ran the numbers… and decided that the Autobots could not afford to intervene. _//Routing full tactical responsibility to Hill Air Force Base...//_

Hill Air Force Base was already emptied, Jazz knew, the fighter jets there pulled east to defend more important centers. The base had some artillery remaining, perhaps a few light planes. Jazz could crunch those numbers himself: by the time the newest batch of drones was defeated, casualties would almost certainly exceed a hundred thousand.

 _//Belay that. Bluestreak and I are eight hundred miles away, we can be there in an hour by road. Tell them to keep it under control until then. Bluestreak! Let’s step this up!//_ Jazz called out, even as he swung himself one-handed out the hatch. Magnetizing his hands and pedes, Jazz scrambled atop the C-5, balancing his mass on the crosswork of struts that underlaid the thin metal skin. The shearing force of the wind drove him to a low crouch as the transport shivered under him, the g-forces of their turn like the pull of some massive tide. The move was dangerous--but it also put a trio of drones right into his crosshairs.

Human voices tumbled in panic over one another across the local channels. _//--what?! Where the fuck did our robot go--oh my *God*--//_

_//Jazz--//_

“Hold her steady, guys,” Jazz called out to his pilots, ignoring the panicky calls for him to get back inside. “‘Cause I’m about to do something really stupid!” Between Bluestreak and the F-16s efforts, they’d reduced their attackers down to less than a squadron. Human engines roared, vibrating against his plating and his audials as Jazz balanced atop the big transport plane, tactical threads humming as they compensated for his vastly improved field of fire. He leveled his armgun, taking out ship after ship with single-minded ferocity. The F-16s did their best to herd their enemies into Jazz’s sights, the constant human chatter an odd counterpoint the hum of the tacnet in his processors.

_//Jazz, you have two on your tail--okay, only one on your tail, can’t get a clear shot on the other, sorry, whups ok new position, that one almost took my helm off! Is it just me, or are the humans getting better at flying? The ones that are still alive, I mean, and boy I hope they didn’t hear that, that was kind of cold, wasn’t it? Don’t tell them, ok--two more down, nice of them to line up like that--//_

_//A good chunk of Virginia just got turned into a big hole in the ground, folks.//_ Springer, who along with the Wreckers not assigned to the Xantium, had been sent to try and protect humans’ communications hubs along the east coast. _//Slagging things didn’t even stop to engage this time--just went in, targeted the whole area and flattened it.//_ It had been a near-impossible mission to start with, Jazz knew--there were just too many data centers and communication hubs clustered along the New York/Washington DC corridor for the aliens to target. _//We’re seeding nanites to try and keep the fallout under control, but--I’m sorry, Optimus. The data center is gone, and so is everything from Leesburg to Vienna.//_ There was no telling how many humans had been lucky enough to make it through the first strike, or the chaos of the aftermath.

 _//Understood, Springer.//_ Optimus’s sorrow, even muted as it was by the demands of battle and the tacnet, was almost palpable, a thread of _regret/anguish/determination_ that ran through his every communication. _//Prowl--//_

_//Springer, head north and link up with Optimus. He and the others are holding the line in New York, but the humans have lost almost of a third of their aerial forces. We need to try and pin them down, push them closer to the ground.//_

_//We’ve cleared Krasnoyarsk,//_ Silverbolt reported in. _//Wasn’t difficult, but they scattered and it took more time than I’d hoped. Heading for Roubaix, France--//_  
  
_//Negative.  Reroute to Bremen to intercept an incoming incursion,//_  came Prowl's immediate reply.

_//Prowl! The Roubaix incursion started almost three breems ago. If we don’t take care of it now, then Lille and all the regional rail systems, the museums, the--//_

_//Acknowledged. Reroute for Bremen. We have new vortices opening over the river port and the Airbus pre-final assembly plant.//_

Silence over the tacnet, stunned, for nearly a full astrosecond. _//Two?!//_ Red Alert disengaged a thread from the dense weave of tactical planning, and they could all hear the static as the security specialist fought to keep from glitching. _//Two at once?!//_

Two at once, at either end of the city. They’d take more than twice as long to clear. And that meant… the next critical incursion might go unopposed, the drone ships free to rain down their radioactive fire on a city that had already stripped its defenses to protect its neighbors. The alien invaders were stepping up their rate of attack, and the Autobots had no way to match it. They were already stretched too thin as it was, dispersed across an entire planet in twos and threes. By the time the hangars of that spaceborne fleet were emptied, there might be nothing left of Earth to save.

Shock, sorrow, helpless fury -- the tacnet colored with dawning grief. It was not the first time the Autobots had faced such impossible odds--or such losses. But they had never wanted the humans to share them. Had never wanted to watch another race of brave little organics die in a fight they’d never had a chance to win.

Now … now they had no choice. Jazz redoubled his efforts, taking out one droneship after another.

Then Prowl’s shock rippled through the tacnet, reverberating against his tactical threads. There was an astrosecond’s pause in the furious torrent of information, of intel and the battle-tactics in which they were all embroiled.

_//Silverbolt--belay my last order. The vortices have closed. There was no attack at Bremen.//_

_//What? That’s good news, Prowl, but--why?//_ Prowl was rarely wrong; and never when their opponents were as predictable as these had been. Which meant something big had changed.

 _//We must have emptied out their stock of drones!//_ Hot Rod surmised, glyphs ringing with relief and exultation, even as he took down another of the invaders.

 _//Negative. They are still maintaining the potential differential necessary for teleportation. It appears our enemies have changed their focus. There is a 86.4 percent chance that the reason for that change is us. I believe that these invaders have decided that the only way to take Earth--is to eliminate us first.//_ The datapoints behind that predictive model flickered through the tacnet, a silent invitation by Prowl for the rest of the Autobot command staff to check his conclusions.

There was the barest flicker of silent consideration, a timeless moment in the midst of _priority-targeting_ and _enemy down_ and a million different tactical decisions a second as Autobots around the world continued to fight, to defend and guard the planet they had claimed as their adoptive home.  Then Optimus made his decision.

_//Autobots--do not abandon your battles. But once they are done, and the humans are safe, return to Yucca Mountain at all speed. If our enemies wish to bring the war to us, then so be it. We will be ready for them.//_

 

***********

 

Dams and data centers weren’t the only things the invaders had been after. Even the most ignorant human knew the world ran on oil--and their enemies knew it too.

Oilfields in Alaska and Russia went up in flames, too remote for the Autobots to even think about defending. Platforms in the Baltic Sea and in the Gulf of Mexico fell, burning, their broken pipes spewing millions of gallons of crude into the oceans. And in the Middle East, the skies tore apart, rifts opening, dumping wave upon wave of invaders into Earth’s atmosphere. Aimed at the oilfields of Saudi Arabia, of Iran and Iraq, droneships darkened the blue dome of the sky with their numbers--

\--and death rose on metal wings to meet them.

Slipstream, scouting alone over the Asmari giant reservoir, encountered the first knot of invaders. Just phasing in, still tightly-grouped from teleportation, all sixteen were easy pickings for an agile airframe. For a Seeker, they were barely even suitable for target practice. They did give Slipstream an opportunity to stretch his lift flaps a little, and the tumbling, flaming debris made for a nice light show across the desert, which was entertaining. Most of the squishies working the nearest oil rigs were either crushed or fleeing, but those who chanced to glance back were treated to the vision of all that a Seeker was: a wheeling djinni, dancing on cinders and robed in ashes, the element of metal risen to dominion over the air.

By the eleventh such invasion, however, Slipstream found himself significantly less entertained. The Sarajeh and Khangiran oilfields were both just a few hundred kilometers from the plateau where the hatchlings were hidden--far too close for comfort. Even strikes thousands of miles away triggered Starscream’s territorial impulses, and neither grounder nor airframe cared to risk his temper. By now all three full trines were in flight, covering the sky above not just Iran, but the neighboring countries as well, beating back wave after wave of attacks. Starscream cared little for human boundaries; lines drawn upon the earth meant nothing to the lords of the air, and Seekers fought their battles wherever they wished.

The helos and the other, lesser flyers also took wing on the inner perimeter, sweeping the sky above and around the massif for any interlopers. All the while, Slipstream, Sunstorm, and the others flew thousands of miles, interlocking in a makeshift tacnet over a battlefield that spanned the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf; the Mediterranean to the Arabian Sea.

 _//These fraggers just don’t stop!//_ Skywarp complained. He banked hard, diving under another barrage of fire from a quartet of droneships. Starscream matched the maneuver perfectly, splitting apart to avoid the backwash of Thundercracker’s sonics. The pressurized wave of air ripped through their enemies with a deafening *boom*, sending them tumbling. Droneships fell from the sky, breaking apart into a rain of flaming metal debris. _//We’ve killed hundreds, and it hasn’t even slowed them down. How many of these slagging drones to they even HAVE?//_

Thundercracker gulped air through his superchargers, lighting the oxygen in a thundering *fwoom* that buoyed him ahead of the shockwave, pouring on that extra bit of speed to catch up with his trinemates. He fell into position above them, guarding their tails as Starscream and Skywarp switched positions with effortless synchronicity. _//Given the size of that hangar ship? Maybe ten or twelve thousand. The Autobots seem to think--//_

 _//Autobots!//_ Another drone became the target of Starscream’s rage: the wings tore right off in a pinpoint hail of solid bullets. Gleefully, Skywarp used the resulting debris to cloak his approach on the last remaining pair of panicked drones. _//This is all the Autobots’ fault! They knew we didn’t have sensors in the Oort cloud, and yet they kept their silence until it was too late. They must have known this was coming for an orn -- instead of wasting Astrotrain on dirtgrubbing mining runs, we could have used him to launch an attack on the command ship long before now!//_

Privately, Thundercracker thought that if they’d been given several weeks of warning, Starscream would have chosen to move the hatchlings off planet, leaving the Autobots to their own mudball-centric problems. And while there would be some satisfaction in leaving the Autos to smelt in their own stupidity, Thundercracker only had enough energon and supplies secreted away to last them, at best, a few decaorn. Unless, of course, they abandoned the grounders, and maybe bot-napped Ratchet while the Autobots were distracted. Starscream would probably think those were fantastic ideas, too.

Thundercracker winced as Skywarp burst through the flaming cloud in a corkscrewing barrel roll, blowing the last two drones to tiny pieces as he went. Through the tacnet, they all could register the dull impacts of shrapnel as they bounced off Skywarp’s plating, sharp-edged metal rattling off armor like rain -- and scraping the Pit out of his topcoat, Thundercracker thought wryly. _//Try not to burn too much fuel on self-repairs, Skywarp. Last thing we need right now is to waste time hunting down another of the squishies’ tanker trucks,//_ he warned his lethally exuberant trinemate. Frankly, they were probably going to have to do that anyway--their enemies might be no match for them, but the constant skirmishes were burning through their energon reserves at a ferocious rate. To say nothing of ammunition, or the inevitable repairs--Ratchet’s welds were holding, but Thundercracker could still feel the deep ache of buried pain-reports, pushed far down in his processing queues. Even drones could get lucky every now and then, and their weaponry *hurt*. The Skykiller trine was already reporting metal deficiencies as their frames pushed metal into artillery generation. Rusted-out human vehicles weren’t hard to find, but breaking down and processing the metal oxides took time, and that--

Skywarp ignored him, corkscrewing a triumphant loop. _//Fifty-six seconds!//_ he crowed. _//Where next?//_

 _//Kuwait,//_ Starscream snapped. They were already turning, Thundercracker and Skywarp responsive to even the least change in Starscream’s angle, just as he was to theirs. The great plumes of billowing black smoke that heralded their latest victory disappeared behind them, receding into the distance as they tore across the desert at a speed that would have shaken apart an earthly jet. _//Four new incursions--the Rainmakers will take the one in Qatar. We will clear out Kuwait and Iraq. Dirge and the others will handle the strike at Azadegan.//_

 _//Starscream, are you sure we should take one so far away? We’re going to need to refuel--//_ Thundercracker couldn’t help but remember wistfully the great tanker-drones Cybertron had once fielded--full of concentrated flightgrade, great slow armored mechanisms that allowed a wing to refuel without ever once having to touch pedes to the ground. But they, like so many things, were nothing but a memory.

 _//I KNOW,//_ Starscream snapped, territorial imperatives edging an already-uncertain temper into snappish spite. _//No one threatens my work, near or far! And you don’t think my tanks are empty too? We will clear these interlopers from our sky, then take what we need from the nearest human depots.//_

Thundercracker sent a wordless glyph of agreement, even as Skywarp crowded close in belated apology, the tip of his left wing just brushing Thundercracker’s right, synchronizing his adjustments to turbulence and speed to match his trinemate’s perfectly. Thundercracker kept his doubts to himself as they sped toward the next attack. There were too many variables here, too much wearing them down, for him to be at ease. Not to mention that the looting of their fuelstocks was not going to make the humans in Kuwait very happy, but the Seekers had bigger problems to deal with at the moment. In this, Starscream was right. The hatchlings came first. No matter what it took, they would protect their own.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even during the worst of it, though, they’d always kept at least one mech on Soundwave. It hadn’t done much to relieve Red Alert’s fretting, or lighten Prowl’s obvious displeasure at the situation, but--what could they do? Human lives were at stake, and they’d needed every warframe they could muster. Still did, despite the temporary lull in the attacks.
> 
> Which was why Bumblebee was here. Unfortunately.

Deep in the heart of Yucca Mountain, a small band of humans huddled around the Giant, holding each other close.

“What do they *want*?” Hughes said, wrapping a blanket tighter around himself and Anjali both. Even in the Giant’s cupped palm, the cavern felt cold. What little news they had came from the Autobot tacnet, and it seemed to only get worse as they heard of each new attack, each new obliterated city. His face was white, the weathered lines set with impotent rage and grief. “No one spends this much effort for no reason--what could Earth possibly have that’s worth all this?”

“I--I don’t know,” Sam confessed. “No one seems to. This isn’t like the Decepticons. They don’t respond to any of the messages we’ve sent. They don’t even seem to care when we beat back an attack … they’re just hitting everywhere.” He looked down at his hands, clenched into fists on the comm consoles in front of him.

During the first day or so of the attacks, he’d been kept busy: wrangling Mearing, coordinating communications between NEST and the Pentagon, doing his best to reassure a deeply paranoid international community that Autobot defenders were there to help, not harm. Now there was nothing left for him to do. The invaders had crippled human communications; what few channels still open--military-grade hardlines, for the most part, plus a few old systems that hadn’t yet been upgraded to satellite-based tech--had been co-opted for emergency orders, for evacuations and for sharing of what little intel the various defending forces had managed to obtain.

The invaders, at least had not been able to take down the Autobot tacnet, or Sky Spy. Blaster and Teletraan both had seen to that. That meant the embassy had become the hub of communications for resistance worldwide, but Prowl was using every channel, down to the last bit of bandwidth.

Which meant that Sam was now useless. Was just another helpless human, sitting in the dark and waiting--and he hated it. Hated that he couldn’t even find out if his mom and dad were safe.

“Parvati, Dean and little Annie--” Anjali murmured, tears slipping down her round cheeks. “Parvati is in Boston. They said that there--there were attacks in Massachusetts ….” To say nothing of her relatives in Hyderabad, or their friends and neighbors in Rockford. The aliens were everywhere. Rockford was probably too small and inconsequential to be a target, but MIT ….

“It’s okay,” Hughes whispered, smoothing a hand over her hair. “It’ll be okay. The Autobots are fighting for us. They’ll--they’ll save everyone they can.” He carefully didn’t say out loud what they both already knew: that ‘everyone they can’ wasn’t the same as ‘everyone we love’.

Mikaela scooted a little closer, reaching out to put a comforting hand on Anjali’s arm. On a nearby gantry, Flipsides watched, blue optics a comforting glow. He was one of the few Autobots still at the embassy, left behind to help maintain communications and man the defenses. If he was worried about Blaster and his cohort-brothers, it was muted in favor of his concern over the small band of humans in his care.

“It is hard to sit and wait,” he said quietly. “But Blaster is listening for any news of your families. As soon as he knows something, he will make sure to let me know.” He looked down at the small mechanism in his white-plated hands. “I wish … there was more that I could help with, but--” But Flipsides was too small and meek to fight, and too valuable--and vulnerable--to be deployed as a battlefield medic. Blaster had refused to risk him, and so he had been forced to remain behind, in an embassy devoid of NEST and most of the Autobots.

Mecha occasionally cycled through for makeshift repairs or refuel, and there was always a guard on Soundwave, but Teletraan and Red Alert were the only permanent Autobot presence. Red Alert had been tasked with maintaining their global tacnet--not an easy task when fighting battles on a global scale and only Sky Spy to rely upon. Prowl, Blaster, and the rest helped where they could, but Prowl, as their only fully-framed tactician, had to focus on strategy, on the ebb and flow of their enemies’ attacks and their own losses, even as he fought alongside Optimus and the others, trying to save as many lives as possible.

“Friends hurt,” the Giant rumbled, his massive field flaring in a thousand somber shades of ochre and umber distress. “Ene-my here. I should go. Pro-tect.”

“Oh dear,” Flipsides said, laying aside the part he’d been working on, in favor of pressing both palms against the Giant’s enormous shinplate, as if he could hold the huge mech in place by will alone. “Please don’t think that way. I know you’re worried; so am I. But you can’t fight them--if you try, they’ll hurt you. Or worse, they might be able to make you hurt your friends.” Smokescreen had done what he could to put up blocks against the Giant’s hair-trigger defense coding, but there hadn’t been much he could do. The damage was too old, the Giant’s coding too alien.

No, the Giant was simply too vulnerable--and too irreplaceable--to be risked in battle. Flipsides would never say it aloud, especially in front of their human friends, but …. There were over seven billion humans on this planet, while the Giant was the only remaining member of his species; a living treasure of Cybertronian prehistory. To risk losing him now was unthinkable.

The Giant turned his lambent optics on the fragile humans in his palm, studying each in turn. “Family im-portant,” he said slowly, as if thinking out loud. “Moun-tain, also im-portant. Moun-tain--out there. With family. Ene-my--must not touch moun-tain.” His jaw shifted, simple faceplates arranging themselves in a determined expression, even as his field flared with purest cobalt resolve. “I go. I keep safe.” Shifting his bulk, he gently lowered his hands, urging Hogarth and the others to climb down onto the gantry.

“Mountain? You mean the embassy? Giant--the mountain is safe, believe me,” Hogarth said, baffled, clinging to a metal finger and refusing to let go. “You need to stay here!”

“Listen to him,” Flipsides urged, blue optics turned upward. “Teletraan and Red Alert would tell us if the mountain was in danger. Going out there won’t help anyone, and it will just put you in danger. Stay here, please. Help us protect your humans as well as our own. We will--” Flipsides stopped in mid-sentence, optics flickering. “Wait, something’s changed. I--”

“‘Sides? Slaggit, where are ya? I need some patches,” Leadfoot groused, limping heavily into the medbay. His armor was heavily scarred, the bright colors smeared with soot and other, less identifiable substances. “Fraggin’ drones caught me from behind--” Sam and the others blinked at the battered Wrecker. Behind him came the rumble of other engines, overlapping voices and the familiar sounds of transformation.

“What’s going on?” Mikaela asked, hurrying down to lend a hand. “I thought you guys were still in New York--what’s happened?” She grabbed the nearest box full of metalmesh patches, hefting it with a grunt and hauling it over. She might not be a medic, but it didn’t look like Leadfoot’s injuries were anything major. So what was the Wrecker doing back in Nevada?

“Change of plans,” the big warframe grunted, settling himself on a bench with an exhausted clank. “The attacks stopped. Alla the droneships? Just pulled out, disappeared, and Optimus told us to pull back and regroup. Prowl thinks that they’re comin’ after us next. Guess they finally figured out who was puttin’ the slaggin’ sabot round in their little invasion.” There was a certain amount of grim satisfaction in his last statement. Even as few as they were, the Wreckers had done their damndest to make sure these invaders paid in energon and dead droneships for every attack, every devastated city.

“Parvati, Dean?” Anjali whispered, sounding choked. “Parvati was in Boston. Have you heard--”

Leadfoot stretched his creaking legs out, so that Mikaela could reach his plating better. From the knee down, anyway. “Boston’s more ‘er less intact, last anyone said. Don’t know if there was panic or riots or what; ask Hot Rod when he gets back -- no, get your fingers right in the joint. Alright, a little to my left. I think I got flack wedged in, oh, yeah, right there. Primus.” The big loading bay began to fill with more mecha, Que half-pushing a battered Springer in front of him, the rest of the Wreckers filling both the bay and the corridor outside with their noisy return.

“No, we’re not going to wait, we’re digging that slug out right now. Guys, make sure to hit yourselves with nanites again, we don’t want the humans irradiated,” Que ordered, tossing orders at mecha ten times his age. “Hi Mikaela! Oh thanks, that’s a good start, but I’m gonna need sealant, and--Springer, I said SIT!”

Anjali pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Hogarth turned to her gently, arms open. “They’re going to be--” he started, but Anjali pulled away.

“I just… I just need a moment,” she said. The air smelled like char and despair; there was too much moving metal, too many massive glowing eyes, the blocky forms suddenly seeming alien and threatening. “I--I’m going to get a drink of water. I’ll… be right back.”

Hogarth was wise enough to let her go.

Yucca Mountain had been built by machines and originally intended to house thousands of barrels of radioactive waste: human comfort, for the most part, had been an afterthought. After the Autobots moved in, human-sized accommodations multiplied tenfold -- both because of the sheer number of civilians and soldiers in the area, and because it was easy to install plumbing when a mech could open up a channel in solid stone as easily as a farmer turning over bare soil, could carry, lay, and spot-weld three miles of piping in an hour. So now there were ladies’ bathrooms, right beside the eastern-most makeshift kitchen and break room. It was smaller here, the ceilings too low even for Bumblebee, almost cozily familiar in the dim emergency lighting. The water on her face was clear and cold. It helped to chase away the salt-sting of tears and fear.

The paper towel dispenser was empty. With a sigh, Anjali wet the corner of her sari, dabbing at her blotchy cheeks.

High on the wall to the right above a cart of janitorial supplies, the ventilation ducts creaked. Against the distant rumble of Leadfoot’s grousing and the sounds of the other newly-arrived Autobots, this noise was tiny, almost inaudible. Then something fell from the metal with a sharp metallic *tink*. Anjali turned, squinting upwards as the duct gave a hollow sheetmetal groan.

Blinking, she adjusted her spectacles, more perplexed than anything else. She’d hardly slept over the last three days; was she imagining things? “Kyā bāta--” she started, and took a step, when the vent cover abruptly flew open, ejecting an eggplant-colored robot less than half the size of Flipsides.

The creature flailed madly with some kind of flippers, squeaking like a chew toy as it came tumbling out -- and down. It fell facefirst right into the janitorial bucket before Anjali could react. Its stubby purple feet kicked mightily against the mop handle, trying to pry itself loose, but it seemed thoroughly wedged in. And angry, judging from the rapid-fire chittering, though it was hard to tell with the muffled echoes inside the big yellow bucket.

Instinct born of motherhood had Anjali hurrying forward to help. “Hold on -- wait, stop -- quit moving, you’ll just make it worse--” At a loss, she grabbed at the waving mop handle and pulled. She might not have much weight or strength to put into it, but leverage was leverage, right? The bucket went over sideways, spilling its contents across the tiles: a good liter of dirty water, a mangled mophead, and one purple robot. The animal-mech-- one of Blaster’s?-- seemed to pant, exhausted by its brief tussle with the cleaning supplies. She hoped the water had not damaged him; his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

“Are you all right?” Anjali asked, crouching down and ignoring the way her knees creaked in protest.

One eye cracked open, flashing a crescent of pink light. “You go away!”

That sparked a flicker of famous Gupta temper. “I’ll have you know, I was here first,” Anjali said, eyebrows lifted at the creature’s tone. “And this is the women’s bathroom. Just where did you think you were going?”

The little mech’s -- flippers? they seemed too short for wings -- flapped and scrabbled as the animal-mech tried to right himself. Anjali had seen several other non-humanoid mechs on occasion. Apparently all of them were Flipside’s brothers despite their very different appearances, but she’d never seen this one. He was small, though; with all the comings and goings lately, she likely just hadn’t noticed him among so many bigger robots. The flipper bat’s voice was squeakily high pitched. “So? You’re not taking a bath, and those stupid flush basins are terrible baths anyway, so it’s not like you need this space, now is it? And I was *trying* to bring this ultramagnetic pin from the medbay-- wait-- where did it--” The flipper bat started flailing, even less coordinated than before.

The medbay. “You just came from-- Flipsides said--” said that all the Autobots were coming back, returning home from their battles, probably most of them injured. The bat-like little mech had red eyes, just like Hot… Hot-something. Hot Spot? And Leadfoot had said… The bat stilled, one flipper-wing hugged across his rounded chassis, mostly obscuring some design painted there, beady little eyes glittering. “Are you Hot Rod?” Anjali hazarded.

The bat-mech stared at her. “...Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes I am, in fact. So you have to help me find my ultramagn--”

“Boston,” Anjali almost didn’t realize that she had spoken until the word came tumbling out, lead-heavy with desperation. But Hot Rod only blinked at her, optic shutters spiralling closed in a flicker of movement. Hands clenched in her sari, Anjali swallowed hard, fighting to keep her throat from closing. “Leadfoot said you’d know what happened in Boston. My… my daughter is there. My son and his family are in Maine. I need to know… to know if they’re alright.”

“Huh?” Hot Rod eyed her again. “How would I know? I don’t even know what---er, I don’t know what colors they’re wearing on their plating -- skin, whatever!” the animal-mech protested, scooting over to glare viciously under the janitorial cart, as if his missing equipment personally offended him by its absence.

The chill of the tiles seemed to seep into Anjali’s knees, even through the thick sari. She slumped, scrubbing a hand over her face, trying to banish the trickle of fear that seemed to creep out from those words. Some of the Autobots seemed so… so personable, so human. But this one evidently cared so little about the humans around him that he couldn’t even be bothered to tell them apart. Which made her wonder how many of the others saw them that way; saw humans as inconveniences or worse.

The bat glanced over, sharp-muzzled metal face regarding her quizzically. “What are their names?”

Not expecting the question, Anjali floundered for a moment. “Wh-what?”

“Designations. Names.” Hot Rod clicked impatiently. “They do have them, yes?”

“Oh, ah--Parvati. Parvati Hughes, my daughter--she’s in Boston. At MIT. Dean Hughes, his wife Sarah, and their daughter, Annie--I think they were in Lewiston.”

The little mech stilled, cocking its head for a moment as if thinking. “No names like that on the death rolls in either place,” it said finally. “According to S--to the others, MIT was evacuated early, before the attack. And Bangor was hit, but no attacks on Lewiston. Cellular phones localized and registered to those first three names are still active.” The animal-mech shrugged, flipper-wings shifting with the movement. “That’s all anyone knows. *Now* can we look for my tool?”

It wasn’t much in the way of information. Someone else could have picked up the cell phones; still, it felt as if something had unclenched around her heart. Anjali mustered up a little smile for the animal-mech. “Of course.” For all his bad temper and alien appearance, Hot Rod reminded her of her daughter. Parvati could have the same huffy impatience, especially when dealing with those who couldn’t keep up with her technical prowess. Still, Anjali loved her little engineer dearly, even as she despaired of ever finding a boy who could keep up with her whirlwind of a daughter whose first love would likely always be reserved for robots.

Putting one hand against the cold tile, she pushed herself to her feet. Finding a tool shouldn’t be that hard in a room this size. Ignoring the small mech who was currently peering around under the sink piping, she followed a hunch and picked up the overturned bucket. The mop press on one side had some kind of steel plates, and sure enough, a dowel-shaped rod of silvery-looking metal clung there

“Is this--?” Anjali started, plucking the pin free. It was as long as her hand, and no more firmly attached than any standard magnet. It was somewhat heavy in her palm, though certainly nothing out of the ordinary.

"That's it, ha ha!" The animal-mech squealed, and lunged to snatch it up between his pointy little teeth.

Anjali blinked. “It doesn’t seem ‘ultramagnetic,’” she said, as he bounded forward and then fluttered up to the open air duct. Apparently, those flippers really did work quite well as wings -- most of the time, anyway.

Clinging to the edge of the vent with sharp little wing claws, Hot Rod twisted his head around to look back at her, the rod clamped between his jaws. His eye-lights gleamed like flames. “Not yet, it isn’t,” he said, teeth bared.

And then, just like that, the little mech swarmed into the duct and vanished, leaving Anjali behind with a pile of disordered cleaning supplies… and a newfound sliver of hope.

 

**********

 

Bumblebee edged around the bulk of a sandstone fin. His tread was light, his colors reflected the hot sand yellow and shadow of the desert around him. Camouflage might be the least of his defenses, but by Vector Sigma, he’d use every one he had. After two full days of fighting from the east coast to the west, every part of him down to the smallest bolt seemed to ache. _//Prowl, you’d better be right about this …. Wheeljack, how you holding up?//_

 _//Fine as a thrush in a mitten larch!//_ came the reply, and Bumblebee checked the timestamp and phrasing against Prowl’s secured and ever-changing lists of passcodes. The English phrases wouldn’t slow Soundwave down much, if he cracked those channels, but anything was better than nothing. All the codes checked out.

 _//Three-fingered daisies, coming right up,//_ Bumblebee replied grimly, slipping around into optical range.

Soundwave was parked in a rough semicircle of sand and scrub, bordered by an arc of wind-worn pinnacles and boulders, rife with spots that would let snipers keep Soundwave in view from a distance -- while keeping a couple dozen meters of iron-rich rock between them and him. Whether that rock would block Soundwave’s hacking abilities, of course, remained anyone’s guess. Even more worrisome, they’d been forced to pull most of those snipers in order to respond to the alien attacks. Even during the worst of it, though, they’d always kept at least one mech on Soundwave. It hadn’t done much to relieve Red Alert’s fretting, or lighten Prowl’s obvious displeasure at the situation, but--what could they do? Human lives were at stake, and they’d needed every warframe they could muster. Still did, despite the temporary lull in the attacks.

Which was why he was here. Unfortunately.

Under Wheeljack and Bluestreak’s guns, alone with the sand and the wind, the heavy-set navy transport seemed... small, even with solar panels spread. Deceptively harmless.

Bumblebee kept his distance.

A pebble clattered down in front of Bumblebee’s pede. “Hi Bumblebee--hey, are you here for the changing of the guard? Because I had my panels out for a while but then I got sand in my rear gimbals and man, I don’t know how Soundwave puts up with it because they itch like they always do, you know when there’s sand and you can just feel it irritating your internals but you can’t quite reach it?” Bluestreak’s chatter was the only thing giving away his location, even to Bumblebee’s sensors, and Bumblebee found himself vaguely impressed that Bluestreak had managed to work the passcodes into his monologue like that -- no mean feat, given how slow English words were. The sniper switched to both subvocal and low-grade comms. “I know Ratchet’s busy but if we’re gonna be in tip top shape I should probably have him go check it out, yanno? And what do you think tip top comes from I mean it’s such a weird thing to say really because if it’s at the top then how does anyone even reach--”

Bumblebee took another look at their relative positions, checking over tacnet and via infrared. “One way or the other, we’ll get those gimbals looked at, Blue. Alright, you two ready?”

“Ten-ho, the pullup.”

“We were hatched ready. See what I did there? The humans say that they were born ready but that’s such a squishy process and I’m pretty sure that they all come out naked and none of them have like tools or armor or weapons already assembled like some hatchlings do, so I really don’t know how the humans can make those kinds of assertions about natal preparedness. Do you remember that one time--”

Shielded by two very accurate guns, and clinging to a lifeline of coded chatter, Bumblebee left the shelter of the stone, one steady pede in front of the other. It took a fair bit of attention to keep autonomic weaponry from cycling into readiness, but hard-won experience had taught him the futility of planning for anything, even a fight, with Soundwave around. No, what he needed now… was something the humans might call zen, a kind of empty mindfulness. Even with Bluestreak’s chatter, it was not an easy processing state to achieve. The fact that Bumblebee was unlikely to be Soundwave’s favorite bot at the moment wasn’t much of a help either. Prowl thought a few words from Bumblebee might catch the Decepticon’s attention, might make him listen, though he’d ignored all other attempts at contact. Personally, Bumblebee thought it was more likely to piss the big carrier off and remind him of why he wanted to see a certain yellow infiltrator deactivated.

“Hello there.” Frag it. Hello there? Could Bumblebee think of a dumber way to start? Right, not supposed to be thinking at all. Steady, steady. “The bossbot would like to have a few words.”

Soundwave did nothing. Was he recharging? It didn’t seem likely, but …. Sand shushed hollowly against the heavy plates of his armored hull. The spiked bashbars of his forward grill seemed like bared teeth.

Bumblebee reset his vocalizer, halting a prudent distance away. “So you’ve probably heard all the comm chatter. You know what we’re up against--and you’ve probably worked out, like we have, that we’re their next target. They need to take us out if they want the planet, which means they’ll be coming here in force.” Bumblebee tipped his helm back, round primary optics studying the clear, blue sky, deep as an endless pool. Beautiful, this world. The invaders had done so much damage, and yet it was still so beautiful. Just imagining those skies black with the ashes of war.… “Listen, I--I’m not built for this kind of negotiation. I’m just going to lay it out for you. We could use some help. The humans’ satellite network has already been hashed, and Sky Spy will be next, if the aliens get serious about looking for it. These guys aren’t going to care about factions or sides. They aren’t going to care about you, or your symbionts.”

The silence, this time, seemed accusing.

Damn it. “Look, I’ve always respected Ravage. That cat has fragged up our systems more often than any ten other mecha combined. And I’m counting Wheeljack.”

_//Hey!//_

“I just couldn’t let him--” Bumblebee shook his helm. The thought of the big symbiont stalking Sam and Mikaela still made his fuel pump churn, even years later. But what good would an emotional appeal do against a mech like Soundwave?

“War is--” War was war, the Decepticons had started the entire fight on Earth, and… and what difference did that make, anyway? “I didn’t know--” and even if he had, would Bumblebee have done anything differently? He thought of the memory the symbiont had shared, of history so old that no physical records were even possible, yet still so vivid that the cool flow of sweet, naturally-pooling energon left a taste on the glossa. Bumblebee thought of his humans, singular and precious. He thought of the tension in his haptics, the jerking give, as he’d torn Ravage in two. Soundwave must have been close; must have reached the battlefield within minutes in order to recover the cat before spark containment failure.

Soundwave said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Bumblebee finished at last, feeling oddly young again, lost, like a new recruit. The weight of the war, all the lives lost to the Well, seemed to settle on him, a core-deep exhaustion. He’d grown so good at killing, at doing what needed to be done without ever thinking about the consequences. When had that happened?

As if the thought were a trigger, or perhaps, as if the thought were a thing that could shrug a weight away: something unwound.

And Soundwave… fragmented. Dissolved, pixellated, the lines of him breaking apart like a hard-light hologram not quite fully interlaced. The echolocating ping of a living metal frame became a high ringing in Bumblebee’s audials, a feedback loop, like hardware set too high. Soundwave’s colors bleached, faded, became sky, became sand and scrub and empty space.

The remote cameras Jazz had so carefully placed -- Primus only knew where the ‘live feed’ they were supposed to produce had been coming from -- were missing, with nothing but scrapes on stone to hint at where they’d been. Gone.

Just like the Decepticon.

_//Primus on a rust-clocked circuit, Bumblebee what the slag did you do and did you even see that --//_

Wheeljack sounded numb. _//How long have we been...//_

“Wasting mecha on guarding an empty patch of desert? Coming up with useless codes?” Bumblebee booted a chunk of shale. It bounced over treadmarks pressed into the sand by bladed Decepticon tires -- one set driving in, then another set of tracks left by a lighter vehicle: a certain slagging police cruiser, maybe. And then two sets driving out. They all had been blurred by the wind. “Maybe a day. They were probably gone before the attacks stopped. ” He shuttered his optics, counted to a billion. Then he reached out, setting up the barest thread of a secure connection.

_//Smokescreen; Bumblebee here. Can you meet us halfway between the secured site and the embassy?//_

The reply took a moment -- due as much to surprise as to the code specialist’s formidable filters and firewalls. _//Sure can, but what--//_

Bumblebee flared his vents. _//We’ll manually disable our weaponry, but bring someone to watch your back anyway, someone who wasn’t near Soundwave. We need to run a complete codecheck on each of us before we report to command. Then you’ll need to find everyone in the roster who stood guard over Soundwave. And we have to reset our scramblers, if we get a chance.//_

Smokescreen’s heavy firewalling redoubled. _//How many--//_

 _//All of us,//_ Bumblebee said grimly, hands fisted at his sides, Bluestreak’s litany of curses ringing in his subthreads. _//We’ve all been hacked. Tell Prowl. Soundwave is gone. And it looks like he had help.//_

 

***********

 

It took Smokescreen a full twenty-four hours to disable several other little ‘surprises’ left behind by Soundwave within Teletraan’s peripheral surveillance feeds, and to treat the returning Autobots.

Red Alert, of course, demanded a second scan.

“But how would you know it’s gone? I mean, really know?” Red Alert was ensconced in the security center, from which Smokescreen seriously doubted he’d moved since the attacks had begun.

“Because he clipped it to the same emotional subroutine on all of us,” the code specialist pointed out. This would have been quicker and easier with a cable linkup, but then, this was Red Alert. As long as he was in the security specialist’s peripheral kernels, though, he checked the frame alignment histories. Strictly speaking, frame-level coding was more Ratchet’s area of expertise, but well--Ratchet was busy, and unlikely to become available anytime soon. “And you haven’t so much as stood up or stretched for the last quarter orn, have you? Let alone gotten a minute of recharge--”

Red Alert flared his plating in irritation. “You see these logs? Every single one of them is a request from a Protectobot to leave base; they average one petition a second. You see this log? These are requests from various human governments for --”

Smokescreen heaved a vent. If Prowl was right, they were going to be the invaders’ next targets. Trying to help would simply put human victims back into line of fire. Which the Protectobots knew--but that didn’t mean they were happy about it, especially as nation after nation swallowed its pride and begged for help in counting their dead. “I’ll talk to them. Are there any droneships left?”

“Teletraan reports that the Seekers mopped up the last few in South Africa an hour ago. We are receiving the usual threats and imprecations from the Command Trine,” Red Alert said, optics never leaving the screens in front of him. “Are you sure I’m clean? Soundwave could have left a trojan--”

It was a measure of Red Alert’s improvement over the past few dozen vorns, Smokescreen thought, that the mere thought of being hacked no longer sent him into a sparking seizure. “I’m double-checking every last byte. Do we have visuals on the fleet yet?”

Red Alert shook his helm. “Sky Spy isn’t equipped to pierce that transmission bubble.” A flicker of Red Alert’s attention, and the schematics popped up on one of the curving display screens. Smokescreen hummed in a vaguely considering manner, as if he were paying attention. In truth, any subject that kept Red distracted and his reactive ice protocols from trying to boot Smokescreen out was a good subject as far as he was concerned. Red Alert continued, oblivious to Smokescreen’s ulterior motives. “Ciel 5 is still partly online, and has several human cameras. But on current course, the invaders hit orbit in two-point-nine hours; still two hundred thousand earth kilometers away. That’s too far for human optical equipment to--”

The screen changed again, patching in the hazy view from Ciel 5’s little positioning cameras. The devices would have been laughable on a Cybertronian satellite: cameras with this kind of wavelength sensitivity were so limited that they were more of a joke than an anachronism. Now, of course, they were all the Cybertronians had.

Somewhere, fickle Amalgamous was having himself a good chuckle, no doubt about it.

A glint in the image drew Smokescreen’s secondary optics. His primaries followed. “Red Alert…”

His tone caught the red mech’s attention. “I knew it! He must have left some code -- or do you think he--” Red Alert glanced over. On the foggy, static-interrupted screen, rapidly growing shadows blotted out warm glow of Sol. The transmission bubble that cloaked the fleet wasn’t, apparently, meant to block this kind of ultra-simple visual. The distance was enormous for such a tiny camera, but the ships were bigger still -- huge, raw-edged dreadnaughts, surrounding an even larger mothership.

And all of them had the flattened, scaled undersides of atmospheric craft.

Cybertron had once fielded fleets such as these. But those ships were gone, either destroyed or scattered to the far systems in pursuit of their endless war. Nothing like this had been seen by either side in at least a hundred vorn.

Each dreadnaught was big enough to blot out a city, once they descended into the atmosphere. Their jagged, dark hulls would cover the sky. Nothing like them had ever been seen before on Earth: not in Giza, not even in Chicago. These were true planetary destroyers; and if they were anything like their Cybertronian kin, they carried enough armament to wipe the surface of the Earth clean.

“I think,” said Smokescreen, the glyphs feeling very small in his vocalizer, “we’ve got a problem that trumps even Soundwave.”


	26. Chapter 26

The images of their enemy rippled from mind to mind across the tacnet, reaching every Autobot in the embassy in a single lightning-sparked moment. Echoes of comprehension and reaction spread with those images, trailing echoes of rage, of _fear/fight_ and the spark-shuddering realization of the magnitude of this invasion, until the entire tacnet was a roiling riptide of anger and fear.

The initial shots were grainy, fuzzed by distance and Sol’s glare, but they sharpened by the nanosecond as one processor after another logged into the interpolation task threads, buttressing Teletraan’s analysis. Even as the images sharpened, pixel by pixel, the AI was searching, working in tandem with Red Alert and the others as it offered up a billion possible ship designs, new and ancient, from the local galactic cluster and beyond.

It flagged a possible match--and Kup’s sudden rage shouldered upwards, threatening to swamp the tacnet.

_//This one. I know those ships, Optimus.//_

_//Are you sure, Kup?//_ Optimus asked, layering _reassurance/calm_ between his glyphs, doing his best to tamp down on the old warframe’s anger with a Prime’s authority.

 _//It’s been three million vorns, Optimus, but I would never forget. Not these Pit-spawned slag eaters,//_ Kup snarled. _//They’re from the Siggrath system, Perseus transit. Ran across ‘em just twice, during the Chiuter campaign, and that was more than enough. They’re slavers, and worse than slavers. They destroy *worlds,* Optimus--take out any opposition, and then strip them clean. //_ Flickering images accompanied Kup’s glyphs, ancient, tattered memories of discovering new systems only to find them dead, their nascent civilizations -- just beginning to reach for the stars -- reduced to nothing but fire and ash. The living beings had been scoured clean from the face of their worlds, along with every scrap of life, every bit of usable resource, the planet’s mantle peeled away like the rind of an orange. Peaceful or warlike, innocent or predatory, it didn’t matter. Not to the self-appointed aristocrats of the galaxy.

_//The bastards called themselves lords, acted like they were doing the universe a favor by weeding out the ‘undeserving’. Recyclons. That’s what we called them. Both those fragging ‘lords’ and their codebroken slave lackeys. And I’ll be slagged if I’m going to let them consume any more worlds!//_

Picking up on key phrases, Teletraan built on that single match, pulling up file after file. Blaster had his own records, cached away in the incorruptible memory of his symbionts. Fragmented as those records were, there was still enough to unravel the story. Shortly after the start of the Great War, the remnants of the Senate had sent squadrons to every corner of the galaxy, searching for tactical advantages and allies against the fledgling Decepticon forces. Thousands of alien races had been drawn into the conflict. Many had been annihilated or broken back to technological dark ages. But some alien civilizations--the Quintessons, among others--had been too unsavory even for the Senate. No alliance had ever been offered to the Recyclons. There was no point. To do so would only expose Cybertron’s own wounds, and Siggrath’s techno-organic ‘lords’ only had one response to weakness.

They devoured it.

And now, the Cybertronians were weaker than they’d ever been. Not since the planet’s pre-history had they been so few, so battered… so disunited. Terrible silence rung through the tacnet, a collective invent.

Optimus, steady as the tidepull of a star, centered them all. A Prime guided, a Protector defended… but Optimus was something more, something not seen on Cybertron since the first Golden Age.

Once, Optimus had been broken by the magnitude of his Protector’s betrayal. But endless vorns of war had reforged him, honed him. Now Optimus was their Warprime, the blade as well as the banner.

 _//Autobots, we stand now at the crossroads of history.//_ Optimus spoke, his glyphs elegant and strong, and the fearful jitters in the tacnet smoothed, steadied, like waves tempering themselves on an endlessly solid shore.

_//I know your fatigue. It is possible that we could escape this conflict, could cling to peace, regardless of the price. But these enemies ask us to sacrifice innocents to the cause of slavery and unjust war. This is a price I will no longer pay.//_

_//I tell you this, my Autobots. We fight now for our legacy: for the hatchlings, and for the organic species that have offered us shelter on their blue world. Now we decide the future of our race. We must decide whether we will forever scatter in fear... or defend life, defend honor, and defend those who have laid their trust in our kind. Our civilization may endure until the cold dissolution of this universe. If that be our fate, let the forthcoming generations still look back upon us and say that this -- this was our finest hour.//_

Optimus turned the beacon of his regard to mecha one by one, touching minds, laying out orders. And across the tacnet, mecha rose to meet him, processors unified in resolve, minds and sparks burning bright as flames. _//Springer, I have a task for you and the Wreckers….//_

 

***********

 

Eight thousand miles from earth, a Cybertronian beacon drifted. The device was crude, assembled hurriedly, but it broadcast its message all the same, in every language Teletraan could find in its archives: _**Turn Back**_.

Swinging into a terminal orbit around Earth, the invaders gave that warning no heed--and hit the first of the mines head-on.

As avid as scraplets, the burrowing little magnetic capsules attached themselves to bare plating and detonated. Each one was just as roughly welded together as the beacon, carrying under fifty pounds of explosives and hardmetal scrap. But many hands had lent themselves to their creation: there were a lot of mines.

Bright little lights blossomed in the view of earthly telescopes, pale flickers in the predawn light. Mecha gathered together, looking upward, Cybertronian optics more than capable of seeing the flares unaided in the pre-dawn dimness.

“Did it work? Did we get them?” Sideswipe demanded, shouldering up closer to Perceptor. The hot streak of a comet shot across the sky, bleeding speed in a fiery tail. “That them?”

“I believe you’re referring to the returning Axalon,” Perceptor corrected. “And… wait. No, they are staying together… pursuing the Axalon... they took the bait.” Perceptor cycled his vents to run cool air over his internals. “...they mean to engage us first.” The frontliner’s resulting whoop of delight, Perceptor thought, was entirely uncalled-for.

“But did we *get* any of ‘em?” Leadfoot demanded, testing out his newly-cleaned leg joints.

“I…” Perceptor squinted upwards, optics recalibrating, focusing down. The first rose-tinted clouds had begun to make their appearance, coalescing out of the cold, gray, predawn light, shadows of sagebrush and rock stretching their fingers across the Nevada desert. A few stubborn stars could still be seen against the dark vault of the sky. “I’m…”

One by one, the stars began to vanish, occluded by droneships and worse at the edge of the stratosphere.

“I cannot determine,” Perceptor said, slowly, each glyph heavy as lead. "There are too many ships to tell."

“Slag.” Sideswipe shared a meaningful look with Leadfoot, then, with a sharp twist of his arm, transformed it, the weaponry hidden under his plating folding outwards, replacing digits with the blunted barrel of a plasma rifle. “Guess it’s up to us to give ‘em a proper welcome party, then.”

Sunstreaker’s mandibles twitched, an expression that only the exceedingly charitable might have called a smile. In the distant light of flaring mines, the brightening glow as ships heated in the atmosphere, he ran the backs of his talons down a strap of his jetpack. “Was hoping you’d say that.”

Prowl’s optics gleamed like chips of glacial ice; the tacnet went chill with focused data, directions, orders. “ETA, twelve minutes. We take these positions….”

 

**********

The Recyclons and their masters had learned their lessons well. The stars died one by one, blacked out as droneships dropped out of the stratosphere, bellies white with heat. The air twisted and rippled in their wake as squadron after squadron descended down to the Earth and the solitary mountain below. This strike was targeted, planned; the numbers, staggering.

This time, however, the Autobots were ready for them.

Yucca Mountain rose up from the surrounding desert like a spine, undulating and storm-wracked, subtly curving a cirque around a dry plain some twelve miles long. The invaders angled down this corridor to take advantage of the stiff wind, dumping heat and speed on the long approach.

And as the first of them entered the kill zone, the Axalon and the Xantium rose up from concealment behind the mountain’s wings, weapons ready-hot. Cannon-fire tore through the assembled ranks of droneships. They gave no quarter: these enemies, the Autobots now knew, could not surrender even if they wanted to.

Harried and picked off on either flank, the droneships crowded together in knots of threes and fives, unleashing barrage after barrage of plasmic bolts that splashed against the larger ships’ armor and cratered the desert below.

 _//Hold my spot, Skyfire. I got some big guns just begging for some exercise!//_ Cliffjumper commed with vicious glee as the Axalon broke away, droneships swirling and diving off in all directions with eerie synchronicity. The much-larger cruiser arced up, rolling, silver sides gleaming white in the dawn... and came down wingfirst towards the concentrated stream of droneships.

Thousands of the invaders streamed beneath the Axalon’s side guns. Targeting was a matter of simple predictive coding combined with trajectories’ analysis, something the Axalon’s AI was more than equipped to handle. Stubby muzzles unfolded from their armored housings and fired in a precisely timed volley, unleashing bolts of fissile fury. Searing white explosions tore through the massed ranks of the droneships. The smaller aliens dropped from the air with every hit, pinwheeling into fragments or convulsing into lesser fireballs as internal power plants blew. As close as the drones had been herded, every ship that fell impacted at least one more on its way down. In their effort to escape the Axalon, trapped on three sides and flying in a dense fog of dust and debris, some droneships even blindly plowed themselves into the ground at devastating speeds.

 _//Take that, ya fraggers,//_ Cliffjumper snarled in satisfaction, then made a disgusted noise. _//Frag--got a coupla strays pounding on my tail. Silverbolt, Slingshot--anyone available to knock of a few offa me?//_

 _//--bit busy, Cliff!//_ Silverbolt’s comm was fragmented, the gestalt-echoes of all five Aerialbots embroiled in a hundred-to-one dogfight consuming his attention. All he could spare were a few brief, unadorned glyphs. _//--sorry!//_

 _//--’s like fighting slagging scraplets!//_ Slingshot added, his fierce delight in the fight warring against exasperation and a slowly building fear. The Aerials were holding their own--barely--taking out droneship after droneship through the application of superior flying tactics and firepower. But at the head of the long valley, the drones had more room to spread out. And more kept coming, filling the sky like locusts, until there barely seemed to be any room left to maneuver at all.

 _//Cliffjumper, Silverbolt, Hoist, Springer: do what you can to keep from getting bogged down,//_ Prowl ordered. _//Disengage if necessary to gain distance; if you are forced to the ground, you will not last long and we will lose our only air support.//_

 _//Yeah, yeah--teach your creator to lube sockets, willya?//_ Springer retorted, guns spitting out round after round of incendiary fire. As a helo, Springer’s alt-mode might not be as fast as the others’--but that didn’t mean the Wrecker wasn’t giving as good as he got. He grunted as a new burst of dronefire tore holes in the surface armor of his alt. _//Slaggit!//_ Cutting his engines, he dropped--and two intersecting squadrons of droneships slammed into each other before they could break off their attack. Springer spun up his rotors again, cupped blades clawing at the air, climbing the skies in a spiralling ascent no Earth-helicopter could match. _//You want to play with a Wrecker? Let’s go, you pathetic Pit-slaves!//_

 _//Hey, what’re we, sprung sprockets?//_ Sideswipe laughed, savage joy in his glyphs as he shot a wingtip off a drone. The thing skidded sideways in the air, just enough for Sunstreaker to hit it feetfirst. The frontliner reared back, talons fisted, and plunged down, putting both hands right through the drone’s central processors. Dead in the air, the droneship was nothing but a leaden kite -- and Sunstreaker rode it down like a wrecking ball, heaving his weight to send his ride careening into one knot of invaders after another.

 _//On your ten,//_ Sunstreaker said, glyphs dry and flat, in stark contrast to the fluids and crystalline chunks that dropped from his talons as he launched himself towards the vulnerable back of another droneship.

 _//What--//_ Sideswipe hit his thrusters, burning straight up on twin plasmic pillars, just as the ship that had been closing with him disintegrated, bathing him in a hot spray of tiny parts and smoke. The frontliner spared a handwave towards the distant ridgeline, and the snipers hidden there. _//Oh yeah, gimme some more of that!//_

 _//Keep lining ‘em up and hey did you see--//_ the tacnet sank Bluestreak’s babble down the priority queues, a distant murmur under increasingly critical reports.

Within minutes, individual drones began making it through the gauntlet of the three big ships, past the raging chaos of the dogfight. They descended on the embassy, on the groundframes and light gun emplacements that protected the entrance. Unfortunately, the Autobots had not yet built the heavy silos that might have allowed them to beat back their attackers: what little Cybertronian tech they had managed to scavenge had gone to repairing the Xantium and stasis-locked mecha. Which meant that they had to rely on human anti-aircraft artillery and the Autobots’ own inbuilt weaponry. At least the human artillery could be slaved to Teletraan and individual Autobot gunners; the human inhabitants of the embassy, along with remaining NEST contingent, had all been evacuated, albeit under much protest. This fight was dangerous even for Autobots, tough as they were. Despite Epps and Sam’s arguments to the contrary, Optimus had not been willing to risk their lives, or those of the Giant’s human friends.

The roar of engines and weapons-fire split the air as the sun rose, smoke and shadows clogging the sky as droneships made strafing run after run against the embassy’s perimeter posts and main entrance. There they met the Autobots’ massed fire, and died in multitudes. But that did not stop them. If anything, their deaths seemed to be part of the Recyclons’ plan; the sharp-edged alien ships continued to dive into the Autobots’ ranks in kamikaze runs, attempting to take out Cybertronian defenders with their own fiery deaths. Debris piled deeper, slowing the ground-bound. The tacnet was in full control, overlapping layers of position-markers, damage flags and other reports flowing into orderly stacks as the battle raged, the outnumbered Autobots taking advantage of any weaknesses they could find.

 _//Blaster,//_ Optimus sent, loading the message with a priority flag to cut through the datastream. _//Can you cut their comm channels? If these creatures are being controlled--//_ The message was punctuated by the heavy *boom* of his plasma rifle as he fought, blowing apart oncoming droneships with single, well-placed shots. All of the Autobots had fought these particular enemies enough times to know exactly what needed to be done to kill them.

Blaster sent a hasty glyph back of _negative/regret/impossibility_. Linked as he was with Teletraan, Axalon’s AI, and Red Alert in order to juggle communications from the tacnet to the human channels--what was left of them--and back again, Blaster’s answer was clipped short around the edges out of necessity. _//Negative, Optimus. Not gettin’ anything but the barest thread of comm signals from our party guests. My guess is these poor slaggers have already been given their orders. Short of magically finding some kind of self-destruct code, nothing I do is gonna make them change their dance order.//_

 _//I understand.//_ Grim regret was palpable in Optimus’ reply, a Prime’s sorrow at so many needless deaths. He charged forward with renewed resolve, towards a tight knot of Autobots in danger of getting pinned down by volley-fire. Inferno, Arcee, and Streetwise were all experienced veterans, adapted to war, but none of them had been sparked as warframes. In this brutal war of attrition, that difference could easily prove deadly, especially when none of them had sheer amount of firepower needed to beat their attackers back.

The addition of Optimus, however, made all the difference. And he wasn’t alone for long; Bumblebee materialized out of the haze, and Kup wasn’t far behind, shoring up the faltering line.

 _//Prowl--I do not believe we can afford to wait much longer,//_ Optimus said, reaching out on the command channel. _//There has been no sign of the Recyclons’ large ships, and we cannot stay out in the open forever. If we continue, we will be driven back into the mountain before their arrival.//_ The mountain might protect them from the droneships for a time. But it would not protect them from the Recyclons’ main fleet, which had the firepower to reduce the entire range to smoking rubble. _//Prowl--it is time. Give the signal.//_

 _//Very well.//_ Prowl’s dissatisfaction with the decision was muted, but still perceptible, wrapped in layers of _worry/calculation_. If they’d only been able to hold out longer, to lure the main part of the fleet within range … but there was no help for it. It had to be now. A nod to Blaster, and he had an open subchannel to Cheyenne Mountain.

“Colonel Lennox. Optimus has given launch authorization.”

 

**********

 

Across Nevada, Utah, Oregon, New Mexico, the cold plains of southwestern Canada, the Mexican states of Sonora and Chihuahua -- across the scrub and sagebrush of the great western desert, pale domes dotted the landscape, guarded only by barbed fences and sensors. Many were open, emptied, their lethal contents long since expended.

Some were not. In the wide desert, those domes split, the racks within turning, lifting. Sunlight kissed cold metal, warmed warheads.

And then fire blossomed, long bodies igniting. Rockets united in intent and destination bore aloft their payloads, drawing long white contrails behind them like penstrokes across the sky.

Simultaneously, every military unit left in western North America launched its remaining missiles. From deep within Cheyenne Mountain, Lennox and Epps watched as they climbed, reaching for the very edges of space, outracing sound itself across thousands of miles … and then fell, boosters expended, payloads all launching toward a single point.

The airspace above the embassy.

 

 

**********

 

 

 _//Autobots, disengage!//_ The command was an imperative, laden with every bit of urgency that Prowl and Optimus could both muster. Groundbound Autobots scrambled for the embassy entrances or other nearby tunnels, launching over helm-high mounds of debris and twitching invader corpses, transforming into alts for greater speed. Springer did the same, dropping out of the air, diving downward as if he were a Seeker rather than a helo. He transformed only moments before his rotors would have shattered against the unforgiving ground, landing hard enough for his pedes to leave deep trenches in the earth.

 _//You heard the mech. Go go go!//_ he ordered, lending the weight of his authority to any stragglers, picking up a limping, damaged Grapple as he ran for the embassy.

 _//Aerialbots, converge on Skyfire,//_ Silverbolt ordered, his big silver alt wheeling, making a beeline for the shuttlemech’s rear bay, heedless of the drones in the way. The rest of the Aerialbots did the same, covering for each other as they punched their way through the locust-swarm of droneships and into Skyfire’s open rear hatch. Skydive was the first, then Fireflight, transforming in mid-landing and turning to lay down cover fire for their gestalt-brothers.

The Xantium and Axalon were already sweeping away, nosing upward as they piled on the thrust, putting as much distance between themselves and the oncoming holocaust as possible. Silverbolt was the next to land, thumping down hard into the bay, half-skidding as he transformed. _//Slag--sorry, Skyfire,//_ he called, grimacing at the damage to the tough floorplates.

 _//Don’t worry, Silverbolt--I can take it. Just hurry,//_ came the calm reply, even as Skyfire’s engines warmed, transwarp drive glowing white-hot as they gained speed. The walls of his internal bay trembled, matter hanging on the inflection point of dimensions.

 _//Slingshot, Air Raid, get in here!//_ Skydive called out as the tacnet counted down, proximity warnings ratcheting implacably higher.

 _//Yeah, yeah, well clear us a path then, ‘cause we got company!//_ came the irritable response from Slingshot. The white- and red-armored mech barrel-rolled, launching missiles and clearing out a squadron of pursuers, then dove for Skyfire. Air Raid wasn’t far behind; they both transformed, dumping speed frantically as they half-dove, half fell into the open hatch, landing with the sparking screech of armor against armor.

 _//We’re in, Skyfire, go!//_ Silverbolt ordered.

The hatch hissed shut, interleaving armor locking into place, even as Skyfire shuddered, quaking under the massed firepower of innumerable drones--drones now devoid of any other target. _//Optimus, we’re good to go. Good luck.//_ The hum of his drive rose inexorably, fed by a massive fuel-plant designed for interstellar travel, quantum alignments stacking--

\--and Skyfire disappeared in a flash of light.

Seconds later, the first warheads detonated.

The air boiled, the nearest droneships immolated in an instant by the blast. Those farther away were knocked tumbling into each other, into the mountain or the ground as impact waves ripped through the air. The shock-inferno tore even more apart, peeled a thick skin of sand and boulders from the mountainsides.

More missiles fell. Detonation after detonation tore apart the sky, scouring the ground below until it seemed like the very earth itself shuddered under the onslaught. Almost all of the United States’ remaining nuclear arsenal streaked down from the sky in all directions, rending the invaders’ world apart. Bits of slagged armor, guns and alien remains fell like sharp-edged hail from the sky as thousands of the Recyclon’s enslaved soldier-ships died. And still more droneships came, falling into the cataclysm. The creatures were moving too fast, a great river of them descending blind into the boiling atmosphere, hammered and rendered helpless by electromagnetic concussions.

Twenty-five miles away, Skyfire phased back across the dimensional veil.

From afar, smoke filled the entirety of the valley, a mushrooming haze that burned, that washed like violent tides over the spine of Yucca Mountain with every shockwave. The fall of broken parts onto the molten desert looked like a monsoon, a deluge of metal and death. Even at this distance, the Autobots could still feel the impacts, could hear them, the high razor-wire hum of gamma radiation gouging at the edges of sensors and comms. The smoke blossomed up, deceptively slow, a terrible flower of destruction.

“Sweet Primus,” breathed Air Raid, knees drawing up a little towards his chassis -- as much as he could, without kicking anyone. Cramming everyone inside Skyfire’s sheltering hold so fast had left the entire gestalt a tangle of limbs and wings, some transformed and some still in alt mode, and they hadn’t yet been able to untangle themselves. The heat of overworked engines rose off all of them, sweltering in the confined space.

Fireflight had his faceplates pressed to one of the shuttle mech’s tiny port windows. “These humans might not have much in the way of tech, but they sure know how to blow stuff up with it,” he remarked. “Any word yet, ‘Fire?”

“None yet, I’m afraid,” came Skyfire’s answer, his voice echoing along the bulkhead and the floorplates. The tacnet was still up, but the EM blasts and nuclear fallout accompanying the detonation of those primitive warheads had thrown up enough interference that only the most powerful signals--baselines, status-checks and critical-condition flags--were able to punch through.

“Those poor creatures,” Skyfire murmured as they all watched that fierce, optic-searing brilliance fade from the sky. Even at this distance, they all could faintly see the destruction, the small flecks falling downward that used to be alien spacecraft. “I know what they’ve done, but … I wish there had been another way.”

“Me too,” Silverbolt agreed somberly. He had seen worse over the course of the war--they all had. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t regret the sheer slagging waste of it all.

“Yeah, well--we gave them plenty of chances to turn tail,” Slingshot said, flicking ailerons in a dismissive shrug. “And after everything they’ve done to this planet? ‘Bout time the humans got a little payback.”

“Perhaps.” The amount of interference was fading, even if the radiation load in the air around the embassy was causing a certain amount of annoying background hiss. Skyfire reached out, opening a new channel, buffering it heavily. This wasn’t nearly as bad as trying to transmit past a solar corona, but he also didn’t want to accidentally overload Blaster’s receivers, either. _//Prowl, is everyone all right?//_

The transmission crackled for a moment. Skyfire could feel it when Blaster caught the thread up and logged it into his transmission net for forwarding -- the link wasn't strong enough to carry the tacnet, but it steadied somewhat, cleared enough for coherency. _//Everyone found shelter; no injuries reported other than damage sustained during the fighting,//_ Prowl reported. _//Our sensors are still recovering, and the amount of material in the air is interfering with Sky Spy’s scans. Do you have a visual?//_

 _//I do.//_ The vast mushroom-clouds of smoke were thinning, spreading outward. Though them, Skyfire’s sensors picked up innumerable fires, large and small, spread across miles of blasted desert. Brush fires competed with piles of burning wreckage, the sand and stone beneath them glassed over or blown apart. Skyfire couldn’t help but notice that the carcasses of innumerable tiny organics--local wildlife--also littered the landscape, and a stab of grief struck at his spark. Necessary their deaths might be, but … “Such a waste,” he whispered.

There was nothing left in the sky at all. Not a single droneship remained, intact or otherwise.

And yet … as the smoke cleared, the sky seemed to grow darker. Dimmer, as if something had somehow eclipsed the sun. A vast shadow fell over the burning landscape, spreading outward, growing ever larger. Haze swirled, then parted as if wounded, splitting around the skyscraper-thrusts of jagged spires and spines.

The first of the destroyers had arrived.

 

**********

 

 _//Optimus -- oh Primus you’ve gotta move -- the carriers were closer than we thought -- soon as they figure out where to fire--//_ warnings tumbled over one another, a terrified jumble of comms on an already-unstable channel.

The Autobots had constructed a dozen new exits from Yucca Mountain -- just as well, given that the official ones were likely buried under mechanometers of slag and debris. But moving fighters down those long tunnels took time… and the mecha who emerged would be grouped, easy to pin down.

That left Skyfire and the other two ships the only Autobots still free. “Clear the deck, please,” Skyfire’s glyphs vibrated with tension just below the surface. “I’m closing with the target now. Bay doors opening in twelve earth-seconds. Eleven….”

 _//Anyone got a solid hookup with Prowl?//_ Air Raid asked, scrambling to make way for those still in alt modes. There wasn’t much room to spare in the crowded bay; Slingshot would have to launch essentially backwards, and fall until he could get his thrusters under him. That would clear out enough space for Silverbolt, and then the rest of them. _//Gonna need some more altitude, Skyfire!//_

 _//Frag me, no. Keeps hazing out around the edges. Blaster, can you bounce us through the Xantium?//_ Routing the tacnet and sensor data through a relay would render the makeshift network an astrosecond slower than it should be, but it was still better than having no tactician at all. The Aerialbots had flown and fought without tactical support plenty of times before, but having Prowl linked up essentially doubled each bot’s effectiveness in the air, and halved the rate of injury. It was an edge they needed now more than ever.

 _//Working on it, Slingshot.//_ Blaster wove and rewove the signals like an ever-shifting dance on a landslide, trying to jerry rig a deep-channel network robust enough to weather the ferocious washes of electromagnetism outside.

The haze was boiling now, tearing in tatters around the descending ship, as if birthing something beyond monstrous. The other destroyers were just shadows in the stratosphere, distant thickening clouds as each of them deployed their own code-crippled drones… but they and their slaves would make it through the atmosphere soon enough.

One problem at a time. The Xantium and Axalon were coming around now, arrowing back towards the fight. Skyfire’s skin shuddered as his rear loading hatch folded open, turbulence whipping at all the mecha inside. Slingshot reversed his drivetrain, his gestalt-leader bracing to give him the push he’d need to clear the shuttle’s bay. _//We’ve got to keep it distracted, force it down until the groundframes can engage--//_

_//Yeah, but how?! You may not have noticed, Silverbolt, but that’s a fragging interstellar destroyer out there. They waited until we used up the humans’ big weaponry, and now--//_

_//I’ll bet my optics those nacelles are antigravs -- we start there. If we have to, we’ll land on the hull and let Superion take it apart. Lock and load!//_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who might be wondering: in real life, Cheyenne Mountain is no longer the home of NORAD and its related missile and surveillance programs, and has been placed in 'warm stand by' by the military as they focus more on terrorism and less on nuclear attacks. However, my headcanon is that in the TF movie-verse, this never happened; in fact, after alien invasion became a very real threat after the Decepticon attacks in Giza and Chicago, the programs in Cheyenne Mountain were ramped up, and their surveillance and defensive capabilities broadened in order to defend against offworld threats. /end military geekery


	27. Chapter 27

Deep within the mountain, beneath the still-falling debris, snatches of the airframes’ conversations made it through.

“Optimus, we need to get out there! Silverbolt and the others are gonna get slaughtered trying to take on that slagging ship by themselves!” Springer barked, rotors half-flared. Behind him, the rest of the Wreckers’ engines growled in agreement.

“I know, Springer. However, we cannot simply command the doors to open,” was Optimus’ calm answer, even as he directed Bluestreak, Perceptor, and the other snipers towards the back entrances. It would take at least a breem for those mecha to make their way to the surface, however, and even longer for them to pick their way across the debris field to vantage points where they might do some damage. In that much time, anything at all could happen to the airframes. “Fortunately, we have someone who knows this mountain better than any of us. Beachcomber?”

The geologist hummed a little, optics spiraled shut and one hand against the wall. His low-frequency subsonics felt like a distant trembling, reverberating over the plating of the assembled mecha as Beachcomber ‘listened’ to the rock before them, looking for a way past the tons of rubble and scrap that had sealed the main embassy doors and most of the nearest exits. “Peace, Optimus. This stone has its own groove. And right now, things are rockin’ and rollin’ all over the place.” He shifted, spreading blunted digits across the rock wall. “Ah, there. I hear you, mamma--you’re wanting to take a load off, aren’t you? Que!”

“I’m here. Got the explosives you wanted, too,” Que said, pushing his way forward.

“Good, good. There’s a new fault, running along these coordinates. You’ll need to drill. Set the charges there and … there. You’ll crack the whole pile open.”

“Got it!”

Less than a klik later, the charges went off, and a muffled *boom* shook the huge entry chamber. Momentarily freed of its monumental burden, one of the massive steel doors trembled, teetering as it jarred, dislodged -- and then Optimus and the heaviest Wreckers hit it hard, powerful engines roaring. Like juggernauts, the armored mecha plowed through the collapsing rubble, shoving mechanotons of unstable debris up and out of their way.

Ignoring the rocks that tumbled beneath their churning wheels, the sand and human-sized stones that bounced off their plating, they transformed, bursting through the dust and haze blasted up by the groundcharge… and came to an abrupt halt.

The destroyer was now fully inside the envelope of Earth’s atmosphere, close enough that its jagged shadow blotted out the sun. The air itself felt thickened with pressure, squeezed between the earth and the invader -- ground effect on a massive scale. Beside that monumental hulk, Skyfire and the two Autobot ships seemed little more than twitchflies, and the Aerialbots were even smaller, motes of flitting color and light against the vast matte darkness of the alien hull.

Bright blades, the distant tracks of incendiary rounds, flickered against the skin of the ship. Agile and swift, the Autobot flyers made pass after pass, laying down sheets of ordnance. Explosions blossomed briefly where cannonfire struck home; huge sections of plating tore free, cratering the earth. Jagged black turrets crumpled in flames.

But against a ship of this size, the damage was negligible. And the destroyer was far from defenseless. Massive gunnery towers unleashed blasts of their own, torrents of nuclear hellfire sweeping the air, lashing at the Autobot attackers. If even one of those blasts hit … Skyfire might survive such a strike. The Aerialbots, however, would not.

The underside of the destroyer gaped open, a vast maw of a hangar, larger than a human stadium. It was emptied now of codecrippled slaves, but deadly all the same -- even on the ground, the Autobots could see electromagnetism swell around that gap. Like a great lance, a maglev beam clawed at the aerial mecha and attacking ships.

The Xantium and Skyfire managed to steer clear. But Slingshot… like a toy caught in a monster’s grip, the Aerialbot spun helplessly in midair, stunned. As the Recyclon ship began drawing in its magnetic net, Slingshot’s gestaltmates reversed course, pouring on the thrust to try to get closer, to intercept, dodging in between terrible flares and explosive bursts.

“Slaggit!” Sideswipe hissed, warming his jetpack. “He’ll be long gone before that ship gets in firing range. We need to get up there now, Optimus!”

“My flight tech-” Optimus started to turn, even as Prowl’s warning glyphs sounded over the tacnet. Of them all, only Optimus, Springer, Blades, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker were even nominally flight-capable. Even if by some miracle they made it to the ship in time, fought their way far enough into the interior to disable that ship without tactical or ground support, and made it out again alive-- under three percent probability of success, Prowl’s calculations whispered -- they would still be at the mercy of the rest of the fleet.

 _//I must do this. *We* must.//_ Optimus amended as the tacnet stabilized, flaring with furious determination. _//For the humans’ sake, as well as our own. Autobots, take the high ground and--//_

The dark haze above them flared white.

Light streamed across the blasted plain like a star come to earth, so bright that even on the ground and under the smoke, everything still standing cast stark shadows. Every helm lifted, every optic turned as another enormous, liquid-metal explosion blossomed on the destroyer’s hull.

The Decepticons had arrived. And with them--

\--Sunstorm.

The skies strobed white and dim again, affording glimpses between every metal-decaying flare. Exacting shots tore into the massive ship, penetrating deep past weakened armor plate and into the superstructure. Another instant between flashes, and two more figures seemed caught in the magnetic beam, rocketing up past Slingshot’s trapped frame and into the hangar maw, a glimmer of thunderstorm blue and vibrant purple.

_***Flash*** _

In eerie silence, the center of the vast destroyer… seemed to bulge. Its huge guns still fired around the periphery, and now more Seekers rocketed out of the haze, evading the destroyer’s blasts with impossible speed and laying down their own chains of fire. The Skykiller trine, the Rainmakers, the Phantom, Sirocco, and Deathwatch trines… too many and too fast to count. Following them, cutting through the smoke, were the rest: Decepticon helos and lesser airframes launching from Astrotrain’s distant bulk, from anchoring spots aboard their faster brethren, transforming in midair to join the battle.

Out in front, Starscream wheeled in a deadly dance, agile as a kite. He streaked a bare wingslength from the surface of the destroyer’s hull, so close that the turrets lost his track or fired helplessly on one another. Behind him, spreading fissures blossomed with hellfire.

The echo of an all too familiar sound, attenuated by miles of air and metal, at last reached the ground-bound Autobots -- the thundering *crack* of a sonic attack. In a flare of brilliant purple, Skywarp and Thundercracker flashed back into view, rolling apart to take their places on Starscream’s wings. Under them, the massive, spacefaring ship, built to withstand untold wars on a thousand worlds, began to break apart.

The Seekers redoubled their efforts, tearing into the great ship like Sharkticons. The Aerialbots weren’t far behind; seizing his chance, Silverbolt swept Slingshot bodily from the failing grip of the magnetic beam. The rest of the combiner team fell into formation around them as they climbed out from the destroyer’s shadow, hooking a steep curve around the rim.

In a flurry of interlocking limbs and sliding armor, Superion slammed pede-first into the bow, cratering the hull. The gestalt’s great black-armored helm lifted, taking in the scene before him, fingers of his left arm flexing as he shook off the paralysis. Then he braced himself, levelled his electrostatic rifle downward, and fired. The point-blank shot tore through the armor plate like tissue, and set off more explosions within. Superion punched one massive fist through an armor plate as thick as his leg… and started ripping.

On the other side of the fragmenting destroyer, Seekers dove in after the Command Trine, targeting antigravs and engines, working in sync to hasten the massive ship’s demise. The entirety of Starscream’s airframe force filled the sky, sweeping past in attack after attack. More explosions blossomed near the massive engines. The destroyer lurched, began to tilt. Shuddering, the invader keeled upwards, as if it were trying to throw its attackers off--

\--and then, splitting down the center, it fell. Explosions finished the work that Thundercracker and Sunstorm had started, ripped it apart from the inside out, great chunks of the ship tearing away. Decepticon airframes scattered in all directions; Superion stayed longer, ensuring the ship’s demise before leaping free. Silverbolt and the other Aerials disengaged, transforming on the wing and letting the backwash and heat lift them to safety.

The two main chunks of the ship slid sideways through the air, gaining speed as lifting mechanisms failed and gravity took hold. One massive fin hit first, crumpling, gouging up a small mountain of sand and stone. The crash seemed almost slow, layer crumpling on layer, the scale as great as a glacier breaking apart. The smaller part of the destroyer crashed to earth, less than five miles from the embassy entrance. The ground shook as a final blast sent aftershocks through the air. Autobots braced themselves, smaller mecha knocked tumbling as the ground bucked and tremored under their pedes.

“Primus,” someone whispered.

They had all seen destruction like this before. They’d seen it in the battles across Cybertron’s highlands, over the fractured ruins of Tarn, of Vos and a hundred other lesser cities. But those memory-files were from long ago, hundreds of thousands of years or more, and never under the full light of a sun, on such an innocent world. Not like this.

The stony bones of the mountain, blasted clean, smoldered underpede. And above, the Seekers circled, a multicolored host.

More Autobots were pushing their way out of the debris-choked main gates, weapons at the ready. Several of the distant bolt-tunnels had collapsed, or their exits been buried in debris. The snipers sent down those tunnels were still underground, racing back to the main hallway now. And the rest of the embassy’s defenses were shattered, the Autobots already exhausted from protecting three-quarters of a planet against constant invasion. If Starscream’s wing meant to invade now, to raid supplies or fuel, or to try once again to botnap Ratchet or Wheeljack…

Optimus Prime squared his frame, cannon on standby, stepping forward as the Command Trine broke free of the wheeling host. The three Seekers roared downwards, flying low. They carved an insolent circuit around the destroyer they’d brought down, as if to display to the rest of the alien fleet just how little this interloper had inconvenienced them. Then they lined up for a pass of the embassy.

_//Prowl?//_

A moment’s hesitation. _//Not a strafing or bombing run. As front-light as Skywarp appears, it is likely they are low on fuel: there is a ninety-three percent probability that they are coming in for landing.//_

 _//Autobots, clear a space,//_ Optimus instructed. The road was no longer a fit surface for most airframes to land on, closer to a jaggedly broken landslide than a runway. That, however, was not a problem. Not for Seekers.

Thundercracker and Skywarp both transformed midair, flipping engines to pedes so that they stood on nothing but the force of their own thrust. They stepped down to the ground, as if the air was a physical thing, a staircase for their kind alone. Skywarp’s stumble was subtle, the barest hitch in a step; even Jazz’s keen optics might not have noticed it without Prowl’s forewarning. For if the Seekers had flown themselves as ragged as the Autobots, they were certainly doing a better job of concealing it.

Starscream flared arrogantly, actively air-braking, engines screaming as they reversed to dump heat and air ahead of him. For an instant, mechanotons of living metal jet hung midair without antigravs, defying physics with casually dismissive skill. He landed with pinpoint precision in front of Optimus, transforming nanokliks before touching ground. Ignoring the ready-hot weapons and uncertain mecha around him with equal disdain, the Seeker straightened, wings swept back and up, looking down on the waiting Autobots. Starscream had bent his helm before the Lord Protector once, humbling himself before Megatron’s lesser height. He did so no longer. Not even to the Prime.

Starscream tilted his helm, optics narrowed. Heat rose off him in visible waves, his field flaring with battle-anticipation and killing intent. His colors were vibrant, Cybertronian and sleek, no longer the dull gunmetal he’d adopted to blend into Earth’s forces. Far above, a droneship running ahead of its pack got just a little too close to the Decepticon airframes… and exploded, fell, nothing left of it but a spray of parts and fluids. The Air Commander gestured lazily at the blasted landscape around them with a single talon. “Somehow, I expected your embassy to be more … impressive. I’m not sure I approve of what you’ve done with the place, Prime.”

Optimus signaled the others to lower their weapons, but remain on guard. Starscream’s prickly and possessive pride made him difficult to predict--but in this, at least, it was clear what he wanted. “Starscream, we have little time,” Optimus said, ignoring the jibe in order to cut straight to the heart of the matter. One Recyclon ship had been destroyed, but the others were still descending, their proximity and the threat they posed pressing down upon the Autobots’ plating. “As you can see, we have a common enemy. We would welcome your assistance.”

“So, the great Prime finally begs for our help,” Starscream scoffed, mouthparts drawn back in a smirk. His field was brilliant with satisfaction. “Perhaps I will even offer it -- with certain conditions, of course.”

Optimus merely nodded, yielding with grace the respect that Starscream so clearly wanted. “Name them, Airlord.”

Starscream hesitated, taken aback at the ready capitulation--or perhaps just reveling in his leverage.

Despite the crackle of background radiation, Jazz’s snort sounded clearly over the Autobot channels. _//Conditions? Ya sure you can trust Starscream to hold to a deal, Optimus? I’m surprised they didn’t just wait until we were all extinguished before pilin’ into the fight.//_ His field was tightly wound, vibrating with suspicion. Seekers were Decepticons in the truest sense of the name--always had been. Jazz made no attempt to hide his disdain, stepping forward to eye the trio of Seekers skeptically. “You could’ve come ta us anytime. I kinda expected you to cut and run once the big guns came out--why are you trying to forge a deal now? ‘Cause you sure as Pit aren’t here to defend the humans.”

Starscream glared down at the far-smaller Autobot, bristling with personal affront. “Despite what you or those pitiful natives might think, this is MY sky. I am Air Commander of the Decepticons; no one intimidates me out of the air!” He transferred his glare to the assembled Autobots. “So we will fight with you--for now--but on two conditions.” Scarlet optics turned, focusing in on one particular mech. “The hatchlings. You will provide shelter and protection for them within your mountain while we fight.” That narrowed gaze swept the assembled, battered ranks of Autobots. “And you *will* return them all once we tear the wings from these interlopers.”

“Of course, Airlord,” Optimus said immediately. “You have my word. The hatchlings are precious to us all.”

“Your word? Hrmph. You could not stop us from taking them back.” Starscream leveled a dismissive regard on the battered Autobots. But there was an oblique satisfaction there too, as if making Autobots play nanny-bot to his creations satisfied some petty kind of revenge. “As for my second condition: I want your tactician.”

The small company of Autobots immediately bristled, closing ranks. “Forget it! If you slagging think you can blackmail us into sacrificing one of our own--!” Hot Rod snarled, only to have his rant interrupted as Prowl stepped forward. “Prowl?”

“It is not revenge,” Prowl said calmly, meeting Optimus’ gaze, then turning to Starscream, looking up at the far larger mech with no trace of apprehension. “Is it, Starscream? You are fielding almost a full wing, and you no longer have Soundwave to rely on.”

“Correct,” Starscream answered, snarling the word. His Seekers commanded the air, but they had lost more than just their ground support when they had turned their backs on Megatron. “You are the last Praxian tactical commander; you were built for this. For us. I … require your assistance.” Even now, Starscream wouldn’t beg. But it wasn’t a command, either.

“Optimus.” Prowl made his decision swiftly; the lack of other options made this particular analysis an easy one. Starscream was right. Without more aerial support, the Autobots would not be able to hold on to Earth. “I will go--but only with your permission.”

Optimus reached out, grasping a soot-smeared pauldron, letting his concern resonate through their meshed fields. He remembered Praxus, and Vos. Not all the Autobots had seen it, but the older warframes remembered well the two city-states' combined military might. Vosian Seekers flew and fought, but it was the Praxian tacticians who spanned the wide-ranging and three-dimensional battlefields, who provided command and control between wingleaders and air commanders. With their millions of active and high-processing threads, they queued up targets and probabilities, allowing wings and trines to exploit split-second openings in dogfights that raged at the speed of light. It was a symbiosis that had ruled the skies of Cybertron and beyond: a symbiosis that had not been seen in thousands of vorns, as first Vos, then Praxus fell.

And yet--this was *Starscream*. _//Prowl--what if he turns on you? In the air, none of us will be able to help you ...//_

 _//It is possible, but unlikely. Starscream is unlikely to risk himself for so little gain, and he will not be able to damage me without damaging himself. Not until the battle is over, at least.//_ Prowl’s reply was calm, reassuring. _//I wish to do this, Optimus. It is the best chance we have of turning the tide.//_

“Very well,” Optimus answered aloud, releasing his hold and taking a single step backward, leaving Prowl standing between himself and Starscream. “You have my permission.” He levelled a searing blue gaze upon the Seeker. “You will protect him as you do yourself, Starscream.” He didn’t bother adding the ‘or else’.

Starscream clicked irritably. “I could hardly do otherwise, Prime.” He held a taloned hand down towards the much-smaller Autobot, and snapped, “Now if you don’t mind, we have a war to win.”

“So we do,” Prowl said calmly, and stepped forward, reaching up to grip the Seeker’s limb in what, for a human, would have been remarkably similar to a warrior’s grip, digits locking into forearms--

\--and then they launched into the air, Starscream folding, transforming back into the sleek planes of his alt-mode. Prowl shifted with him, limbs interlocking into the Seeker’s frame, their armor folding together seamlessly until there was no way to tell where one stopped and the other began--no longer any sign of Decepticon or Autobot at all. Just an aircraft, now subtly larger through the fuselage than an F-22, screaming into the sky, a gleaming streak of white, red, and blue that shattered the air and sent smaller mecha tumbling backwards in their wake.

 _//All Seekers, this is Tactical Air Command,//_ came the call, Seeker command channels folding into the Autobot tacnet seamlessly. _//Form up under your wing commanders,//_ Starscream-and-Prowl commanded, a resonant and inescapable call. Skywarp and Thundercracker fell into place on their wings, four forces of destruction all one in the air. The Aerialbots and Skyfire circled a little closer, cautious -- and found themselves swept up into the great swirling body of Seekers, helos, and shuttles, slotting seamlessly into the massed host, the intricate dance of trines and coveys. _//We have another destroyer incoming with its fleet of drones, ETA two klicks. Four more destroyers and a flying fortress -- capabilities unknown -- will be dipping into the atmosphere any moment. Lock and load: it is time for us to take back our sky!//_

Another shadow descended--not a destroyer, but the dark purple bulk of Astrotrain’s alt. The shuttle made his entry recklessly fast, not bothering with any of the usual landing approaches. He touched down hard, plowing through piled rock and debris in disregard for his plating.

 _//Make a hole,//_ he commed brusquely on an open channel. _//Gotta get ‘em off and under cover--I’m a slagging sitting duck like this.//_ His main hatch was opening even before the glyphs were finished, the thick plates still glowing with heat. It thunked into the scorched earth, and a small force of Decepticon groundframes exited at full speed.

The first few were in alts. They headed straight for the embassy, tires throwing up dirt as they launched themselves forward. Behind them came an odd assortment of other grounders, all running--or limping--on two pedes, weapons at the ready. Those weapons, however, were aimed at the sky and the oncoming destroyers, not the Autobots. Ratchet’s belated realization sparked through the tacnet: most of these were the damaged frontliners they had traded back after the last battle.

All of them wore their surface armor clamped tightly closed -- but not to protect internal components from the radiation storm. Under the thick armor, behind spikes and blades and two dozen types of railguns, energy rifles, and cannons…

...their plating peeped.

In the lead, Runabout set his brakes and transformed through the fishtailing slide, rising up to his pedes in front of Bumblebee. Something inside his chassis went ‘eeeee!’ excitedly, tiny talons scrabbling behind the thick clearplate of his windshield, which still bore the needling marks of the stinger strikes that had nearly offlined him just a short few months before.

Bumblebee, worn and wounded, hesitated. Suspicion and ancient hatreds shouldered reflexively upward, born of millions of years bitter war. And then… then he stepped aside, deliberately giving way before the oncoming Decepticon forces. As if of a single mind, the Autobots all cleared the path to the Yucca Mountain’s deep-sheltered tunnels, the medical facilities and mecha, energon stills and storage, Teletraan's hub: everything. The Decepticons and Autobots were still enemies, but in the face of the Recyclons and annihilation, they could not afford to offer anything less. Not now. Especially not with hatchlings at stake.

Runabout’s optics flickered. The frontliner glanced back to where Astrotrain was already warming his engines for liftoff, to the Seekers streaming overhead, forming up into eerily precise formations even by the standards of a mechanical race, a great roiling multitude. Then he glanced at the Autobots, civilian and warframes alike, and gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod.

“Get ‘em inside,” he snapped, the order aimed at both the Autobots and the incoming Decepticons. “Find ‘em their ‘mountain’, let the wardrone keep ‘em safe.” As safe as any of them could be, anyway. “Grabber, Twist, you stay to watch. The rest of you, get back out here to hold the line.”

Runamuck snarled something unintelligible in Bumblebee’s direction as he barrelled past, followed by the other hatchling-guardians. The rest of the Decepticon groundframes spread out, transforming, weapons and target-locks aimed upwards, seemingly ignoring the Autobots entirely. Even those still damaged took up positions, weapons at the ready.

Optimus, in the meantime, had finally reached his flight tech--Hoist and Grapple both helping pull it clear of the rubble. He transformed, sending the command for the trailer to unfold.

Jetfire’s last gift to his Prime exploded in a flurry of wings and engines and weaponry, silver blades wrapping him in armor, massive thrusters lifting him from the ground. The nearest Decepticons retreated backwards instinctively, weapons jerking up, before they caught themselves. Fields flaring in chagrin/respect/fear, they quickly lowered their guns again. Optimus gave the assembled forces a nod.

 _//In this, we will fight together, in the memory of what we have lost, and for the future we strive to protect.//_ Great engines heated, nozzles circling down to funnel a thunderfall of thrust, even as Springer, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker leapt into the air, more than ready to meet the rest of the Recyclon fleet. _//Prowl, Starscream ….//_

 _//We understand, Optimus,//_ came the answer, the doubled tones of two voices perfectly in synch. _//The Seekers will take them from above, and drive them down. We will force them into your range.//_ Against ships this size, distance was their enemy--they needed to get in close, inside the range of those big guns.

And they needed, much as Starscream did not want to admit it, the firepower from below. The Seekers no longer had the element of surprise. Without large ships of their own, driving the destroyers down into Autobot fire and Autobot boarding parties was the only way they would be able to take the enemy fleet apart without being decimated.

Ancient engines burned blue-white, launching Optimus into the ash-filled sky. Weaponry came online, ready-hot, picking targets and plotting avenues of attack. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe rose up on either side, a deadly vanguard in scarlet and gold. Below, the groundbound units spread out in orderly clusters, Decepticons and Autobots alike. Directed by the tacnet, some Decepticons left their own comrades, warily joining with like Autobots: long range snipers circled to the ridgelines with Bluestreak and Perceptor, Decepticons with the short-range weaponry of ambushers grouped with Jazz and other hand-to-hand fighting frames. If the invaders wanted a fight, then a fight the invaders would get.

For as Optimus rocketed up, wreathed in the powerful cyclone of half a hundred airframes and Seekers, this much was clear: no race in the known universe was better suited for war than they.

_//Bring them to us, Air Commander. We will retake your sky, and in so doing, we will teach the Siggrath Lords that Cybertronians will never again be their slaves!//_


	28. Chapter 28

Deep within the heart of Yucca Mountain, the Giant waited. Hatchlings adorned his helm and shoulders, bright sparks of color in the dim light, peeping in excitement every time another massive explosion reverberated through the bedrock.

Dust and small stones rattled down the walls of the cavern with each distant impact, and the two Decepticons left behind on sentry duty shifted uneasily, scanning the rough-hewn ceiling for any signs of fissures or instability. Having a million mechanotons of rock caving in on their helms was not their idea of a good time. The humans had supposedly built this place to withstand even an orbital bombardment, but a mech would have to be a fool to trust the squishies’ architecture.

Still, whether they liked it or not, they had their orders. Starscream would have their sparks if they abandoned their post. Besides, if anything happened to the hatchlings they left behind, the other Decepticons would ensure there wouldn’t be anything left of them for Starscream to shred.

“Me, I fly bester!” A russet and gold Seekerlet announced, gliding in a loop around the big meeting chamber. Ruckus wobbled, nearly clipping a wing on some ducting. His tiny vocalizer, mostly self-generated even after the benefit of Ratchet’s attention and spare parts, warbled through several octaves. “You too much slow, too much!”

“Am not!” Wildfly retorted, and launched himself from his shoulder-perch. He had quickly adapted to Ratchet’s upgrades and increased mass, and now used them to his advantage. He dived, tackling his clutch-brother in midair and sending them both clattering into the Giant’s hastily upraised hand. “Me best!” Wildfly crowed as the rolling tangle of limbs ended up with him on top, using his greater size to pin the other Seekerlet. Ruckus promptly retaliated by biting down on one wingnub. “Eeee!”

The tussle continued, scarlet optics spiraled down to laserlike pinpoints as the two hatchlings wrestled, tiny talons clawing at plating. The rest of the hatchlings ignored the mini-battle, exploring their new domain or making their own bids to reclaim favored perches. A hatchling launched himself into the room, firing tiny antigravs and making slow, lazy curlicues in the air. “Falling not flying,” Dreadwing observed haughtily, waggling his own purple-splotched wingnubs in illustration.

“You slow-clocked Bottobot, Dreadwing!”

“Yeah, slagga-Bottobot!” Binary invectives and rowdy challenges in Cybertronian, English, and mangled Persian peeped from all sides. Before a bigger fight could break out, though, another rumble shook the chamber. The sound was met by a chorus of appreciative whistles.

“Boom! Haha! Yay!” Hatchlings crowed from their perches, several more taking off to chase pebbles midair. Large as the cavern was, the sudden influx of colorful little bodies into the air made flying more challenging, and it wasn’t long before a trio collided.

“You fly bad!”

“You turn wrong, fly badder!”

“No, you both inferior!” Antigravs firing in all directions, the ball of squabbling Seekerlets jinked and careened wildly, at last coming to a buzzing, clawing halt in the Giant’s other enormous hand.

The rest of the scattered Seekerlets didn’t waste any time in finding new trouble. “You little fraggers stay outta that,” Twist growled at three of the bitlets who, between them, had managed to pry open a crate of -- what the frag was that? Some kind of disgusting organic fuel stock?

The admonition had little effect; a multitude of small blue boxes labeled ‘macaroni’ were soon scattered everywhere, spilling their contents. The dry starchy bits apparently made a very satisfying crunch when stepped on or fallen into, and more hatchlings quickly joined the carnage.

Grabber huffed, but didn’t intervene. They’d probably start cramming the crispy corkscrews into their vents next, but he had his talons full just keeping the horde out of the main parts of the electrical systems and anything else that looked important. Stupid squishies, stringing cables all over the fragging place. Stupid Autobots, for living here. Hurrying pedes clattered out in the hallway, and he stiffened, damaged joints clicking. But it was just another runner, some civilian-framed Autobot hauling energon or parts up to the surface for the fighters.

“Fragging gets under my plating,” Twist growled, shaking his leg to dislodge a climbing hatchling. The little scraplet squealed his delight and clung tighter, and Twist gave up the effort as a lost cause. “Havin’ them so close, and not bein’ able to do anything about it.”

“The Autoscum, or those alien exhaust-suckers?” Grabber said, heading over to rescue Brunt before he pulled a handled glass jar of brown liquid down on himself. There were several squishy-sized mechanical devices, too simple even to be called drones, all grouped together in the same corner. Spaceshot had pried a refrigerated box from the wall and bitten through the tiny pipes in back, while two more hatchlings had opened the front of the box and were doing their best to jam each other inside, much to the detriment of the assorted human fuelstuffs. “Fraggitall, Spaceshot, you share that! You drink all that freon yourself, your optics’ll turn orange. You want orange optics, huh? Well, do you?”

Spaceshot evidently didn’t give a stripped screw about his optics, because he just kept gulping. Then Brunt raised his vocalizer in a staticky wail, and there was brown water everywhere and a glass carafe stuck on a pointy little helm, and Grabber had more important things to deal with.

“Both of them,” said Twist, eyeing little Misfire, who had managed to squash a small blue box on each of his four pedes and both wing-nub-tips, like the fabric tubes squishies used as pede-covers. The bitlet pranced an unsteady circle, enthralled by each crunchy step.

“Either way, I’m pretty sure we could jam the drone over there into the doorway.” Hands otherwise occupied, Grabber jerked a pauldron towards the wardrone. Little Decoy clambered awkwardly onto the warframe’s pede, fore-talons clasped around something. A scuttling organic insect he’d found, unless Twist missed his guess. Decoy craftily examined the inviting gap between Grabber’s knee and shin plate. “Might be too dumb to fight, but the drone could just sit there, and nothing’d get throu-- don’t you dare, you frag-- arrrgh! Disgusting!”

It was a half-hearted bit of reassurance, and both of them knew it. Even stuck on hatchling-guardian duty, they were still linked into the tacnet. Grabber was no tactician, but he’d been a warframe for thousands of vorns; it was easy enough to follow the ebb and flow of the battle above. Although the Decepticons were up there to add some real firepower to the Autoscum’s pathetic efforts, it wasn’t looking good. The second destroyer had made full atmospheric entry, and dropped a new payload of drones to clog up the skies. The things might be no match for Seekers, who tore through them like they were twitchflies, but they hampered visibility and were doing a decent job of keeping the groundframes pinned down, even as they died.

The hatchlings were happily oblivious to all of this, of course. But from the way the wardrone’s helm tilted with each new explosion, that broad field vibrating through the air with _worry/apprehension_ , it was fully aware of the threat they faced. It shifted uneasily, a slow movement, and gave a rumble that echoed the creaking of the rock around them. “Fight-ing above,” the thing said slowly. “Friends hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda what happens when you get in a scrap,” Twist said with all the philosophical resignation of a veteran warframe.

“Moun-tain hurt,” was the wardrone’s response. Grabber paused, Brunt in one hand, Decoy dangling from the other, the first hatchling flailing and spattering drops of liquid in all directions. Twist reset his optics, baffled.

“What?”

“Opti-mus fight-ing. Pro-tect babies. Pro-tect mountain.” The wardrone tilted his helm back, looking upwards, as if he could see through the tons of bedrock above them to the battle above.

“‘Bout time the Prime was good for something other than slagging our afts,” Grabber groused, managing to shimmy most of the crushed bug out of his leg and give Brunt a final shake. He dumped the two hatchlings back in with the others, who promptly discovered a new game: sticking organic crunchies onto their moistened sibling. Grabber watched in resignation as Brunt was covered in macaroni, then shook his helm and stomped away. “I’m too old for this slag,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well don’t let the Screaming One hear you say that. Last thing ya want is for him to start thinking your components are more useful than you are,” Twist shot right back.

“We’re *all* gettin’ too old for this slag.” It was his opinion, and Grabber would double down on it if he wanted to. As long as none of the Command Trine were around to hear it, anyway. “Yanno, I thought we were at least going to get a couple’a vorn of downtime. Time enough to get cleaned up and repaired, maybe dig in, build up, get more bots ‘ta join. Lord Megatron’s got himself busy with Cybertron, after all--him and alla his other big hitters. What’s he care about a few old warframes out on the edge of the galaxy? But--”

“Real life ain’t always that pretty. Or that neat.” Twist noted, one pair of optics idly watching as Brunt, now thoroughly crusted over and reveling in his new accoutrements, buzzed a regal circuit of the room. Some of the hatchlings tagged along. Others were still splatting around in the soupy macaroni-brown-water puddle. Atlas and the little orange-striped pair were collectively using their tiny drills to dig a hole in the floor for reasons that Twist could only imagine. The squabbling in both the Giant’s hands had subsided. For a moment, it was almost peaceful. Then Quantum -- the little Pitspawn had his talons in the electrical socket again -- reached out and touched one of his puddle-jumping cohort. Voltage discharged with a crackling zap, little blue arcs dancing over plating. In seconds, bitlets were shrieking in glee, jostling in for the chance to be electrocuted too.

“You think I don’t know that?” Grabber snorted heavily through his vents. “Glad we came though. When was the last time we had a chance ta see a warframe clutch? Good thing we’re here, too -- fraggin’ Seekers are way too flighty to handle these little chip-snatchers.” Speaking of which: Grabber did a reflexive helm-count. Twenty four, twenty five… where was--oh. Cordite had managed to cram his clutchmate into the refrigerated box, and was currently holding the door closed against the talons pounding on it from the inside. Grabber didn’t bother to intervene; a bit of cold never hurt anyone. Even with the hatchlings’ thin armor, it would take a fair amount of time at temperatures well below freezing before they dropped into stasis. Would teach the bitlet a good lesson about not letting himself get ambushed like that, too.

“Yeah, ok, I know we’re the best with the scraplets. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be out there bustin’ some helms, though.” The tacnet vibrated with warnings and directives, position-markers weaving in dizzying patterns on the ground and in the air. A second destroyer was a massive presence in the tacnet, attackers and defenders swirling around it. Scans showed weaknesses, new damage that Decepticons and Autobots both capitalized on, Seekers and airframes pounding from above, Autobots and Decepticons launching ordnance and boarding parties from below. In a way, the sheer size of the enemy ships worked in their favor. The embassy--and the airspace above it--was so small in comparison, there was simply no room for the other destroyers to maneuver in and add their firepower.

High overhead, Seekers were already engaging the third destroyer. A flare of triumph sparked through the data as the Sirocco trine raced between a just-deployed squadron of drones and the hulk of the ship, so close that metal kissed metal… and they were free, gone at the very last moment.

Twist bared denta in fierce satisfaction as the drones slammed into their own carrier ship, other Seekers riding the resulting inferno like a fiery tailwind. Then he winced as more proximity warnings popped up, Autobot-flagged. “Ooh, close one,” he remarked, as a rocketing chunk of blasted drone shot past the Prime. Embroiled in the thickest part of the fighting and hampered by his own size, the big bot couldn’t twist away quite fast enough; damage-reports jumped to the fore as he lost the tip of a flight-tech wing to the shrapnel. The Prime’s position marker lost altitude, slowed, drones closing.

Then the nearest destroyer fired.

Twist and Grabber both stiffened, their primary attention now on the tacnet as the cavern shuddered, the mountain rumbling like a wounded animal under the impact. The blast was massive, plasma readings flaring over the tacnet, exponential numbers tumbling over each other into a cascade of destruction. An entire swath of droneships was obliterated in an instant, along with a single unlucky Decepticon airframe. Seekers dived away on all sides, heat and radiation beating against their armor, and the Prime …

… the Prime fell.

For a fraction of an astrosecond, all Autobot attention was upon that single position-marker, the tangled, rising cascade of damage-reports.

 _//Optimus!!//_ The call came from all sides--multiple voices raised in a singular cry of grief and denial. And in the cavern, the Giant lifted his helm.

“I go.”

Taken by surprise, Grabber and Twist looked up at the wardrone. “Wait--what?”

“Moun-tain hurt.” Carefully urging the remaining hatchlings off their chosen perches, the Giant stood.

Blitzwing chittered in annoyance, stubbornly clinging to one pauldron. “I go too! Go fight, go fly!”

Lambent white optics turned down to regard his last determined passenger. “No. You stay. I go.” The Giant’s field flared, equivocation and fear disappearing, settling into solid swathes of cobalt determination, sparking with red flares of certainty. One large finger pushed Blitzwing gently off of his perch, lowering the clinging Seekerlet to the nearest ledge.

“What the Pit--wait! The Autoscum said you can’t--” Twist started forward, talons flexing helplessly.

The Giant stood, turning to the cavern entrance. For once, all the hatchlings had fallen silent, wide optics turned upward, watching. Young as they were, they were warsparks; they knew, at the core of them, what it meant to go to war. “I choose. I help,” the Giant rumbled, pausing long enough to glance back at the two Decepticons. “I go.”

“Slag it, don’t--”

Twist’s protests were too late. Ducking down through the cavern’s opening, the Giant stepped out into the main embassy, leaving the hatchlings behind.

Grabber and Twist exchanged uncertain looks.

“What does it even think it can do?”

“No idea.” Grabber looked over the swarm of trembling-tense hatchlings, all their little ruby optics -- and one set of subtly orange-ish ones -- trained on the hallway, as if their mountain might come back for them. “Great. First the Prime and now the wardrone. A coupla less Autoscum to worry about, I guess.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” Twenty-six. There was no way they’d able to fit all the newsparks in their cargo spaces, if -- when -- they had to move fast. “The way things are going? Our problems are just gettin’ started.”

 

*********

 

Outside, the sky was a gray sea of ash and radiation. Seekers and lesser airframes tore through the murk, blazing trails of fire and death. Drones fell in their wake, and massive chunks of debris fell from the second destroyer, entire sections obliterated by the determined assault.

Atop that monumental ship, Defensor had gained a foothold, and was tearing it apart from within, red optics glowing with the gestalt’s fury. Watching the humans die in droves with each new alien attack had taken its toll upon the Protectobots, their grief and rage mounting each time they were unable to fulfill their core coding, unable to save the helpless organics under their care. Now, with the source of all that destruction before them, Defensor tore into the enemy with a savagery his fellow Autobots hadn’t seen in countless vorns. The gestalt’s armor shrugged off drone-blasts, though getting through the destroyer’s thick shell presented more of a problem. And then the Rainmakers and Sunstorm breached the outer skin, giving Defensor access to internal halls and rooms that tore like foil in the gestalt's terrible grasp.

And then Optimus fell.

Caught in the center of a blast from one of the destroyer’s main guns, Optimus reeled downward, trailing smoke and flame. One wing was completely gone, those powerful engines stuttering as main lines failed. The Aerialbots dove, Sunstreaker rocketing skywards, all of them reaching out to rescue their falling Prime, to slow Optimus’ descent.

_//Optimus!//_

_//Don’t worry, Optimus, I have you,//_ Sunstreaker sent, glyphs spiked with fierce determination. He tore through a quartet of drones that had changed course to intercept, firing with deadly accuracy. _//Prowl, I--//_

 _//Get him to Ratchet. We will provide cover,//_ came the immediate reply, Prowl’s dispassionate concern overriding Starscream’s disdain. _//Aerialbots, move to intercept--//_ Sunstreaker ignored the flurry of orders, Seekers maneuvering into new formations around him as he closed. And then -- there! He grasped one blackened arm, ignoring the way his talons sank into the fractured and smoking armor.

 _//S-sunstreaker? Where--//_ Optimus was still trying to recover, optics flickering as autorepair fought with battle-protocols for resources.

 _//Yeah, Optimus. I have you.//_ Which was not quite true--Optimus was almost twice the size of Sunstreaker even without his flight tech. With it, he outmassed the frontliner several times over. Still, Sunstreaker could at least slow their descent as other airframes swooped in to assist--

A sudden force caught hold of them both, wrenching them to a sudden stop in the air. Springer spun helplessly several yards away, caught in mid dive and snarling curses. Leaking fluid -- energon from ruptured lines -- hung in a drifting constellation around them. It took a moment for Sunstreaker to understand what was happening. The third destroyer, far above the fray, had finally gotten a clear shot, and caught them within its beam of warped gravity.

Sunstreaker tightened his grip on Optimus, as careful as he could--and reversed his afterburners.

The heavy funnels of his jetpack clicked open, aspirating air and droplets of the Prime’s spilled fuel through the unfiltered opening. Combined in the engine’s molecular furnace, both air and energon *ignited.* The equipment pinged a cascade of flagged code as red as the flames that spilled around them both, incandescent ribbons of force. Thin layers of metal inside the engine burned away, mere fuel to the fires, sloughing in the heat. Seekers streamed by, afterimages blurring through the ash, arrowing vertically to fire up into the vast maw that had caught Sunstreaker and the Prime. Inertia clawed at them, grip slipping --

The tacnet went mad.

Far above, the ship jerked, shuddering under a massive blast. And under the shriek of tearing metal and the *boom* of explosions, came a new sound--a rising metallic roar of rage, a primal howl that rose and rose, laden with subsonics that vibrated against plating, shaking everything in the battlefield. For a single moment, Autobots and Decepticons alike hesitated, the nearest scattering and falling back as a deeply buried, primitive scrap of core coding recognized the killing intent in that roar.

The Giant had left the embassy. Had charged onto the battlefield, great grey pedes crunching through meters of rubble and broken metal. Imagery flickered over the tacnet, the closest mecha sharing what they saw with more distant brethren. For the Giant … was transforming.

Armor seams broke open, the heavy gray plating sliding away, reconfiguring, exposing ranks upon ranks of weapons. Plasma cannons, particle disruptors and more--both hands folded back, revealing two separate armguns, along with auxiliary artillery. Those round white optics spiralled down to scarlet pinpoints, the helm retreating into the protective armor of the Giant’s massive chest, a transparent force-dome springing to life for additional protection. Above that dome, three sentry-guns uncoiled, rising upward on flexible, serpentine mounts. Below, the broad chest itself was reconfiguring, the thick armor plating folding back to reveal the building charge about a single, massive cannon housed beneath.

There was no recognition in that field, no understanding of friend or foe--only purest crimson murder. The Giant might have entered the battlefield with the best of intentions, but now everyone on it was a potential enemy. The giant mech moved, implacable as a gestalt, advancing. Weapons locked on target after target, firing, and droneships died in droves. Explosions blossomed upon the armored skin of the wounded destroyer that hung above them.

 _//Let’s move!//_ The comm was Sunstreaker’s only warning; he cut his jetpack engines moments before the gravity beam flickered off, before Springer hit them both. More falling than flying, the two mecha shoved and wedged the Prime’s blackened frame halfway into Springer’s open hold -- all of the big mech that would fit -- even as Springer’s rotors strained in vain against the air.

 _//Prowl!//_ Wheeljack’s comm was frantic, even as he and the other Autobots nearest the embassy scrambled to get out of the Giant’s way. _//Prowl, the Giant. His combat protocols have tripped--he’s--//_

 _//We see him/it,//_ came the immediate reply. _//All mecha: do NOT target the Giant. Allow the drones and the destroyers to draw his fire. Do not, under any circumstances, point your weapons in the direction of the Giant.//_

 _//That’s gonna be a little slagging difficult, Prowl!//_ Kup barked. / _/We’re in the middle of a scrap, in case you hadn’t noticed!!//_ His mixed band of Autobot and Decepticon frontliners fell back, flanking the large mech. As much as it made his combat-protocols twitch, Kup turned his back on the giant mech, concentrating his fire on another incoming wave of droneships, trying to keep a path clear for Optimus, Sunstreaker, and Springer to land.

 _//Use the Giant as cover, if necessary,//_ came the dispassionate reply, the glyphs laden with imperatives, overriding the immediate protests from Ratchet, Wheeljack and Blaster. _//We cannot remove him from the battlefield. We cannot override his damaged coding. All we can do is use his firepower to our advantage, and ensure that we do not become his next targets. Springer--//_

 _//I know, I know!//_ Optimus was worse than a dead weight, jerking in his open hold, edges of hardened armor gouging into his own thin internal plating as the Prime tried to reconfigure his flight tech, even as Sunstreaker did his best to hold the mech still. Ash and debris fogged the air, scoured at his rotors. A massive particle discharge cut just to the starboard, a deadly and sweeping beam. _//Scrap and sparks!//_ Springer cut his engines, diving -- falling -- trying to gain distance even as he sacrificed altitude.

 _//Easier said than done,//_ Acid Storm’s trine scattered like sparrows, sheer agility alone saving them from an ascending missile that would have swept them all out of the air, to judge from the size of the hole it left in the destroyer above. _//At least it’s staying on the groun-- oh, frag me sideways.//_

On the ground, mecha scrambled to get more distance as the Giant’s huge thrusters -- which hadn’t transformed, despite the changes to the rest of the big mech’s frame -- spat flame. Size made the mech’s liftoff deceptively slow in comparison to the airframes above. Instead the Giant’s ascent was more akin to that of a shuttlemech, a monumental acceleration of mass, a hundred mechanotons of living weapon rising up to sunder the Cybertronians’ organized, three-dimensional battlefield.

The destroyer seemed to recognize the threat, exterior guns swivelling to target the Giant. Seekers dove away on both sides, airframes spiralling out of the line of fire as massive blasts tore through the air. Most missed--as large as he was, the Giant was still a tiny target for a ship that size--but not all. Plasma boiled the air, fission blasts tearing at gray armor and glancing off of the protective shield. The Giant didn’t seem to notice the damage he was taking, boring straight in, returning fire--

\--and then the destroyer’s guns fell silent as a massive explosion tore apart the hull. In the midst of the fireball, Defensor roared in triumph, hands full of the remains of the ship’s main power plant. _//We might not be able to stop the Giant,//_ the gestalt sent triumphantly to the rest of the tacnet, _//but that doesn’t mean we can’t help him!//_

The Giant slammed into the destroyer -- and through it, punching a massive, ruptured hole. Emerging from the cratered hull, he turned, scarlet optics scanning, locking on. His snub-nosed primary cannon came online, indicator lights flickering in the gloom. White flares of particles coiled in center of the aperture, glowing as they were drawn together, into a singular point of ignition--and then fired.

A greenish, glowing ball of pure energy leaped forward, launched by the cannon. It didn’t have far to go. Impacting the engines and the fissionable material there, the cannon blast fed the reaction, the energy sphere imploding, compacting down into a single point, infinitely small--until heat overflowed the draw of gravity. The sphere exploded, an impossibly tiny supernova brought to earth. Atoms collided, fusing, turning what remained of the destroyer’s engines inside out, throwing out a stormfront of greenish radiation in all directions. Plasma soon followed, along with a hailstorm of lethal shrapnel, chunks of slagged material that somehow had managed to survive the blast.

Above, the Seekers had not wasted any time. Even before the second destroyer had begun to fall, they had already switched targets, concentrating their fire on the third. Superion had landed on the hull and was already doing his best to replicate Defensor’s feat. Now that the tacnet had shown them the destroyers’ weaknesses, the Autobots went after the engines and powerplants with a vengeance. Still more droneships launched, trying to defend their beleaguered masters. Below, Springer and Sunstreaker were headed down, carrying Optimus’ crippled frame in a dangerously fast descent, one closer to free fall than any kind of proper landing.

_//Make a hole, slaggit--we need to get him under cover! Ratchet--//_

_//Don’t waste time talking, Springer,//_ Ratchet barked, his comm full of medical imperatives. _//Just get him to me! I--//_ The rest of Ratchet’s instructions never made it as a new warning flared over the tacnet.

 _//All mecha, clear the third destroyer! We have weapons-charge from above!//_ Prowl ordered. There was no time to second-guess Prowl’s assessment, and no need--a warframe who argued with tactical command on the battlefield was, more often than not, an extinguished warframe. Seekers immediately broke off their attacks. Superion roared in rage but launched into the air, breaking into his component mecha, reacting within astroseconds of the warning.

From far above, barely within the envelope of Earth’s atmosphere, the fourth destroyer fired. Not at the airframes, or even the embassy--but at the third, still functional destroyer below it. Massive blasts tore into the ship, tearing it apart.

 _//Get clear! Ground units, find shelter! All airframes, disengage and get as much distance as you can!!//_ Prowl repeated, Starscream echoing his orders in Vosian cant to the Decepticon wing. The Command Trine was already moving, retreating from the battlefield at several times the speed of sound, other trines following in eerie synchronicity. Skyfire and Astrotrain, unable to match their speed, activated quantum drives, disappearing in a flashes of light. Lesser airframes dove for the shadow of the mountain or piled on the thrust, trying to outrun what was coming.

Then the third destroyer blew.

The first two destroyers had died by inches, carved apart by Seeker fire and gestalt attacks. This ship, however, went in a single, titanic explosion. It obliterated all the droneships in the vicinity, and drove the falling remains of the second destroyer into the earth. Several helos and airframes, too slow or too damaged to escape in time, were instantly annihilated in the blast. Entire squadrons of airframes were knocked reeling out of the air, tailfins and wings slagged. Below, mecha hunkered down, heavier warframes and tankframes doing their best to cover frontliners and civilian mecha from the impact of the blast. The explosion tore at armor, knocked mecha tumbling. Massive, hundred-thousand mechanoton pieces of what had once been an interstellar destroyer fell over the embassy, crushing any mecha unlucky enough to be caught beneath them.

This -- even more than the lack of sufficient shuttles -- was the very reason the Autobots had not chosen to engage the invaders in space with anything beyond simple burrowing mines. Ships this large created enormous debris fields when struck by stellar-grade weaponry, detris that would have rained down on an unprotected planet in their thousands as vast metal meteors. But now, all that debris was thundering down… in one little corner of Nevada alone. And most of the embassy entrances were too choked or buried to admit mecha to the relative safety within.

The stone itself burned.

Shockwaves from the expanding fireball nearly spun Springer into the unforgiving, half-molten ground. Sunstreaker lunged, every force multiplier in his frame straining against centrifugal forces just to keep the Prime’s frame wedged into the shelter of the helo’s armored shell.

“Slag slag slag … fragging, rust-cored pistons--” Grabbing supplies along the way, Ratchet was out the medbay doors before the blast had died. He was nearly to the main embassy entrance -- the tacnet reported that it was buried, but there had to be a way to open a tunnel; there just had to be -- when blunt digits closed over his shoulder guards and jerked him to a halt. “Let me go! Slaggit, Wheeljack, let me go and help me move that rubble! Put your spark into it, frag it all!”

“Hold up, you’re needed here!” said Wheeljack, grabbing the medic again when he tried to turn. The air rippled with heat; half-molten and congealing chunks of metal and crystal filled the gap that the Giant had previously opened on his way out of the Embassy. There was no telling how deep the mass lay. “That’ll scorch your servos off --”

“Our *Prime* is out there,” Ratchet snarled, twisting away. “We have to--”

“Follow orders, get the mecha in here back up and fighting -- that’s what we do. That’s all we can do.” Wheeljack clenched his oil- and energon-stained hands. “If--”

“He used ta be slagworks. You need a shovel-drill?”

It took Wheeljack a moment to realize where the query came from; precious few mecha had reached the safety of the embassy, mainly just the previously wounded, the medical crew, and-- with a frisson of foreboding, the engineer looked down the hallway, towards the entrances to the biggest warehouses.

Fifty tiny crimson optics -- and one oddly orange-ish pair -- stared back, peering silently from around the archway frame. They clustered behind the pedes of the two Decepticon guards on watch, one of whom seemed none too pleased about his compatriot’s comment. He’d once been a miner; that much was obvious from his frame, even if the tools he’d once used had either been replaced with weapons or been weaponized themselves. His slagworks drill was one of the latter.

“Twist, you fragger-” Grabber started, and only the cluster of hatchlings behind his pedes kept him from jerking back as the fragging Autobot medic pretty much just appeared in front of him. How the Pit a medical frame managed to move that fast, Grabber would never know.

The medic had him by the collar guard before he could finish that sentence. “Move that rubble, or Primus help me, I will weld your backstruts into a shovel and use *that* to dig a fragging hole in that slag!”

Grabber was twice the medic’s size, and carried a hundred times more firepower. But, despite his hulking frame, Grabber was not an idiot. He obeyed.

  

*********

 

It took only a klick for Grabber’s scooping drill to carve a smoking tunnel through the rubble. For a thousand vorns, the flanged, ultra-hardened drill had been a melee weapon enhanced with energon blades -- he’d ripped through Autobot lines with the roaring tool. It still worked for its intended purpose, though: softened metals and debris was not much of a barrier. Still, there wasn’t exactly any time for an architectural masterpiece, not with the medic’s invectives audible even over the drill, and he pretty much just went straight up and out. Even once he broke through, the smoldering channel was over seven hundred degrees in places, slumping slowly in others -- but if a mech was fast and kept his helm down and his vents closed, it should be safe enough.

Outside, it seemed like the Pit itself had come to earth.

Smoking, radiation-laden fog was a miasma that even the best scanners could barely penetrate, and optical range was reduced to little more than a mech’s armreach. Fist-sized chunks of half-molten metal splashed down with mere moments of warning, and the ground was layered ten deep in the twitching corpses of drones. Molten slag trickled between the frames, dangerous traps for unwary pedes, the red glow casting the only available light.

Grabber turned to call back. “We’re through, but you’re not going to like it -- whoa!” The big warframe jerked back as Ratchet shoved past him, tacky half-slagged metals from the tunnel leaving streaks of ash and silver over his frame.

The Autobot medic didn’t seem to notice the congealing weight, or the devastation around him. Instead Ratchet just picked a direction and stomped off, muttering. The tacnet was fragmented, large chunks missing, but Blaster was still online, and he and Teletraan were shoring up what remained. Which right now seemed to be a whole lot of critical-damage and stasis-warning flags, some distant return pings from buried mecha and Seekers, and not much else.

“Uhm. Are you--”

Ratchet didn’t even bother to turn. “What do you want, an invitation? Get out here and make yourself fragging useful already!”

Grabber sent a resigned comm back to Twist, who was still in the archway, keeping the hatchlings in line. _//Lemme guess. If I let the medic get slagged, Starscream will have my spark?//_

 _//Yeah, probably.//_ Twist eyed his charges, nudging little Misfire back with the side of one pede when the pitspawn tried to prance out into the hallway, boxes still firmly affixed to his appendages. _//Make that definitely.//_

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t, then. As usual. Why did this kind of slag always happen to him? Grabber threw up taloned hands in resignation -- the drill now folded away -- and hurried after the medic.

Fortunately, the Autobot medic didn’t seem intent on going very far, though Grabber did have to heave him over a few deep, slag-dripping cravasses cutting through the thick layer of corpses, like a fracturing blanket of death upon death. Several times, bigger chunks of falling metal -- entire segments of the ruined destroyers -- crashed down around them. But they weren’t being targeted: it’d take the other destroyers a few more breems to enter atmosphere, and that might be enough time for the scattered Cybertronian forces to regroup. Maybe. If enough airframes were still flight-capable, if the gestalts could free themselves … but there was nothing a lone medic and a single damaged Decepticon warframe could do about any of those things.

Soon enough, even Grabber could pick up the incessant beep of a short-range Autobot distress beacon. Even with that and the tacnet for assistance, they nearly stumbled over the Prime in the billowing murk.

Springer had either crashed or made one Pit of an emergency landing; he was offline, mangled chunks of half-molten drone parts fouling his rotors. The Prime had been mostly sheltered in the big helo’s cargo space. Sunstreaker, crouched beside Optimus with rolls of metalmesh and line patches, hadn’t been so lucky, to judge by the energon slicking his lower chassis. The armgun he leveled as Ratchet scrambled around Springer’s bulk, however, was fully functional.

“Stay back or I’ll--! Ratchet??”

“In the metal. Now move! What were you even trying -- you were trying to reconnect his lines while you’re leaking out? Primus save us all. Put that boltbat-shooter away and patch your own lines first. Now!” Ratchet barked when Sunstreaker trained his gun on Grabber instead. Ratchet went to work on Optimus, not waiting to see if his orders were followed.

Sunstreaker lowered his gun warily when the Decepticon made no hostile moves. “Springer is offli--” he started.

“I know that,” Ratchet snapped, hands already busy, spidery multidiagnostic tools fully unfolded. He touched scorched panels gingerly, relieved to sense intact circuitry under the surface damage. “And I’ll walk you through resetting his main relays after you fragging patch your leaks!”

 _//Prowl, Red, everyone--I have an orbital communications signal. Audio only.//_ The tacnet was tattered now, backlogged with status requests and aid calls, fogged with dead spots where interference blocked signals … or where mecha had offlined or extinguished beneath the rubble. But one node was still acting as one of the central hubs, still bright as it forwarded data everywhere the bits needed to go with ruthless efficiency. Blaster.

“Reinforcements?” Ratchet looked up, hope blossoming.

Blaster hesitated. _//...no. The invaders.//_


	29. Chapter 29

_//A Prime.//_

The words were dispassionate, spaced apart with cold deliberation, as if the deaths of tens of thousands of drone-slaves and three destroyers meant nothing to it. The Cybertronian glyphs used were archaic, dating back to before the Parhelion war, to the Age of Expansion. Relayed by Blaster to the entirety of the tacnet, those slow, deliberate words seemed to constrict the spark.

Ratchet was far too experienced a medic to be distracted by an enemy’s gloating; he kept working, stabilizing Optimus’ core systems. The heavy, spaceworthy armor that Jetfire had bequeathed to his Prime had saved Optimus’ life, taking the brunt of the blast. Now it had become a liability, and Ratchet worked frantically to disable it, discarding piece after piece of burnt and crumbling plating so that the power demands of the flight tech couldn’t overtax their Prime’s battered systems.

 _//Who knew that the retrieval of a single warslave would lead us to such bounty, here on this inconsequential organic world?//_ The Siggrath’s transmission didn’t require a response. Instead, it appeared to be a rhetorical musing upon the invader’s own superiority. _//Cybertronians make excellent warslaves, if difficult to control. But now we will have a Prime. The last one remaining to your species...//_

“Over my deactivated chassis,” Ratchet snarled, hundreds of unfolded pincers, micro torches, and nanite applicators moving without pause as he patched rent after rent in Optimus’ internals, injecting nanites and their functional substrates into areas where self-repair was flagging. Optimus was stable, but it was difficult to tell how much of the transmission he could hear. His optics were dim, higher cortex functions still struggling to re-establish their connections.

Beside them both, Sunstreaker snarled in agreement with Ratchet, his engines revving in warning. He wasn’t the only one. Across the battlefield, through the tacnet, others shouted their defiance at their enemy.

 _//You think so, huh? Just come down here an’ try it,//_ Kup shot back, glyphs roiling with unsubtle hatred and _violence/aggression.//You ain’t gettin’ Optimus or anyone else!//_

 _//Yeah!//_ Sideswipe added, full of battle rage. _//_ _Come on down here, and we’ll kick your afts just like we did your slaves! You want our Prime, you’re gonna have to kill every last one of us first!//_

Sideswipe’s bravado was backed by his fellow Autobots, warframe and civilians alike. The Decepticons, however, weren’t nearly so eager to throw themselves into the fray. Carefully pared down to a subchannel, outside of the main broadcasts, Astrotrain snarled, _//Speak for yourself. If your Prime was too stupid to get out of the slagging line of fire, then let the aliens have him.//_

 _//You assume that the Siggrath will stop with Optimus. This assumption is incorrect,//_ Prowl responded coolly, backed by Starscream’s peremptory order.

_//Your opinion is irrelevant, Astrotrain. You fight under MY command, and you will die if I deem it necessary!//_

The Siggrath did not appear to notice the Autobots’ defiance. Or perhaps they did not care. The fourth destroyer was already descending, the jagged black hull carving through the sooty air, the great maw of its drone-bays opening with slow inevitability. The Command Trine and the rest of the Seekers would be back within range within moments, but the earlier battles had taken their toll. All the surviving trines and warframes were running on fumes, badly damaged or both. The energon and ammunition they had would not last forever, and they had already expended most of their largest ordnance against the first three destroyers.

 _//Yes. Deliver our wayward warslave and the Prime.//_ From the bandwidth and mix of languages, only some intelligible, it wasn’t clear whether the invaders were addressing their slaves, the Cybertronians, the humans, or some combination thereof. _//We will strip this world of its organic infestation, and purify its resources for a nobler use. Shoulder the yoke of your betters, and live.//_ A hiss of static cut across the transmission. _//Rebel…//_ the signal popped, clicked a few times, fading as if it had been momentarily swallowed. _//...and be destroy--//_

With a series of snaps, the message cut out--and was replaced by another.

A new voice spoke, a landslide down slopes of steel, dark and elemental. _//Ironic. I was about to offer a similar choice.//_ The malice in those words was almost palpable, a lethal inevitability that made thrusters stutter and engines fall silent.

 _//Now I have decided otherwise. Only one answer suffices for your presumption.//_ Megatron’s glyphs were stark and unyielding, as devoid of mercy as the void between the stars. _//Death.//_

Behind the dark shadow cast by the destroyers, a new sun irradiated the sullen, smoke-hazed sky.

 

*********

 

_New Mexico, 24 hours earlier._

 

Powder-fine sand breathed from the winding roadway. Vehicles stood abandoned, pulled off to either side, vacant shells under the settled lacework of dust. But unlike the larger cities, most of the human inhabitants here had not fled their homes. Instead they hid, hunkered down in church basements and cellars, trusting in anonymity to keep them safe from alien attack. There was no National Guard here, no military presence to keep order. Even local law enforcement was gone, pulled away to help with rescue and evacuation efforts elsewhere. Which meant a pair of fast-moving vehicles stood out, attracted the eye. Barricade idly noted the attention -- the wide, wet optics that peered between the boards laid over windows, the ghostly cordite scent of such small arms as the humans had managed to invent -- and dismissed both. None of the humans here were likely to pose a threat.

Still, the creatures could, on occasion, be entertaining. The unrelenting sun had painted both the aging highway signage and the township itself with a patina of fine white cracks. _//Truth or Consequences. I like it. A good Decepticon name. Too bad it’s attached to this worthless little rust-speck of a town,//_ Barricade remarked.

As usual, Soundwave ignored him. Long ago, when all of Barricade’s schemes and plans had been upended and turned into so much confetti, speaking aloud had been a kind of subtle protest against the new order of things. Soundwave seemed to pick up most important matters from his processors anyway, making speech largely irrelevant. But standing silent sentry, following orders without comment or question, had never been Barricade's thing. It made him feel like little more than a drone, and in any case, words -- and the reactions they evoked -- had always been his first and finest weapon.

So Barricade talked, playing for the tells that he knew he’d never really get. It wasn’t much as far as rebellions went. Plus Barricade was fairly certain that Soundwave knew exactly what he was doing, and humored him accordingly. At this point, though, Barricade would take what he could get. He’d always been a practical sort of mechanism. _//You’re sure what we need is here?//_

 _//Affirmative. Remote location, ideal.//_ Soundwave’s response was uninflected, stripped of modulation, flat. As usual.

Barricade heaved a vent, idly tracking a flurry of short-range radio calls as the various human groupings endeavored to contact one another. The town had been stripped of its protectors, and normally Barricade’s black-and-white police alt would have been viewed with relief, not fear. But Soundwave … Soundwave’s alt was another matter. He’d kept some aspects of his Earth alt, merging the low-slung and aggressively sleek lines of a Mercedes-Benz with the spikes and fully armored cargo region of his Cybertronian alt. Even with dark blue and silver plating liberally dusted by road dirt, he looked foreign, otherworldly, menacing. Isolated from the rest of the world as they now were, with nothing but a few ham radios and sputtering AM broadcasts to tell them they were not alone, the townsfolk had quickly learned to fear anything alien.

Just as well. Let them be afraid, for all that Barricade cared. The days of Decepticons running and hiding on this mudball were just about over, and not a moment too soon.

The pair of mecha rattled over the bridge, the town receding behind them, replaced by endless dun scrub and rock -- and a long strip of empty road. Barricade took the lead to streak down the dusty highway, opening his throttles for the sheer pleasure of speed -- until the small trailer he pulled gave an irritable rattle, and he fell back to drive just ahead of Soundwave. A new order of things, indeed.

As they dropped down into the burnt dun of the dusty valley, Barricade saw what they had come for, rising out of the desert like a mirage: the pristine white nose of a rocket, pointed at the sky.

It appeared that not all the human defenders had been called away. A handful of the fleshjobs still loitered in the shade near a sun-faded sign that announced ‘Welcome to Spaceport America!--no doubt some semblance of a private security force, intended to discourage looting in the general chaos. To judge by the shocked expressions and scrambling, the humans hadn’t been prepared for Cybertronians. The humans continued their frantic shouting, some of them giving chase on foot, while others piled into vehicles, yellow lights flashing as the two mecha rolled past the human-scaled main building and down to the chain-link gates that divided the launch pad tarmac from the public areas.

Humans were strange creatures -- who else, in all the known universe, would put a lock as thick as a talon on a fence made of fragile wire threads? A quick downshift, a rev to set his powertrain, and Barricade crashed through, links splitting around him with a squeal, poles snapping off at the base. Barricade’s trailer clacked at him unhappily as they jounced over the rubble. Soundwave followed after, heavily armored wheels churning the torn fencing into so much scrap, leaving metal embedded in the hot pavement tar.

Reaching the pad, they both transformed. Behind them, human vehicles screeched to a frantic stops, slewing sideways. Barricade stretched out arms and flexed his fingers, luxuriating in the ability to move freely. At the sight of those long, barbed talons, a few of the smarter humans threw their vehicles into reverse, while the rest froze, gawking. Barricade eyed the rocket doubtfully. “Even if this thing can get us where we’re going, any idea how we’re going to get the squishies to cooperate with the launch?” he asked Soundwave. The tall carrier stood up, daggered sensory panels flaring outward, his crimson-visored gaze taking in their surroundings.

“Cooperation, unnecessary.” An info-packet accompanied Soundwave’s reply: the schematics of SpaceX’s Falcon Heavy rocket. Experimental, it was the largest rocket on Earth, officially rated for 53 tons. It had also, Barricade noted as he browsed through the data, been built to standards not quite as unbearably primitive as the average human device. Part of that might have been the Autobots’ doing -- the Prime’s technology transfer program, requiring all the squabbling political units of Earth to jointly share in the benefits, had resulted in some small improvements to metallurgy, power systems, and the like.

Of course, Soundwave had also been cutting deals with the humans for the better part of a vorn -- bits and pieces of technology included. By now, the spylord was well-versed in the fine art of wrangling what he wanted out of the humans. And apparently, he’d wanted a rocket.

A flicker of sardonic humor buzzed through Soundwave’s field. “Vehicle, prepared for test launch prior to arrival. Humans: easily motivated by digital currency.”

Barricade snorted, amused by the hubris of a species that with nary a moment’s thought hinged its entire system of exchange on nearly-unprotected electronic transfer. The creatures were luckier than Amalgamous that Soundwave had wanted to keep local economies intact. “Can’t argue with that.”

Soundwave inclined his helm. Turning to face the rocket, he commanded, “Rumble, Frenzy, Ratbat: eject.”

The heavy, overlapping plates of his chest armor slid aside, baring his docks, and the three cassetticons launched outward, transforming as they went. Rumble and Frenzy landed easily on the dusty ground, while Ratbat activated his antigravs, flapping a quick little circle before landing upon Soundwave’s upraised arm. Small talons latched neatly into the grooves between armor plates, and the glideframe immediately clambered up Soundwave’s arm, settling himself upon his preferred shoulder-perch.

“So this is our ticket to space, Boss?” Rumble said, craning his helm to look upwards. “It doesn’t seem like much. The squishies've been having these things crash and blow up all over the place. You sure they actually followed your instructions and got it right this time?"

“Affirmative. Rumble, Frenzy--complete final physical checks.” It was a simple enough task, and only Soundwave and Barricade’s sheer size kept them from doing it themselves. “Ratbat: keep watch for outside interference.”

The glideframe blinked. “What, like that?” he said, pointing with a wingclaw.

“H--halt!” A bullet pinged off of Soundwave’s backplates, not even leaving a scratch. Soundwave turned, and the human guard paled even more, hands shaking around the tiny Earth-weapon he held. “Th-this is private property! I--” Fear had obviously overwhelmed whatever scraps of inferior intelligence the human had originally possessed. Barricade gave Soundwave an incredulous look. The human was about as intimidating as a single scraplet. Did it honestly think they were going to listen?

The human fired again. The second shot ricocheted off the cobalt carrier, fragments of lead showering the compact little trailer that Barricade had dutifully pulled all this way.

The walls of the trailer exploded in a storm of shifting parts, internal components flowering violently outward, blades hissing as they drew together a thing of hot steel and fury. Eight spidery legs unfolded, clawed pedetips hooking the asphalt with a continuous, fluid hiss like sand in the wind. Rising up, Scorponok flexed his pedipalp pincers, circling.

Soundwave, for his part, ignored the human as if it wasn’t even there. “Barricade, Scorponok: will board rocket. Soundwave: will bring remaining systems online, begin final countdown.” He headed for the communications lines, pedes just missing the human guard, who squeaked in gape-mouthed fear, gun shaking. Some speck of intelligence finally broke through the terror, and the human broke and ran. The sudden movement was more than enough to draw a hunter’s attention. Scorponok spun, crouching low--

“Got it,” Barricade said. He jerked his helm in Scorponok’s direction. “Get back over here. No time for fun and games. Let’s go.”

The mech hesitated, telson stinger arched up and back, firing mechanisms cycling. _//Spoilsport,//_ the mech finally grumbled, pedipalps clicking. Reluctantly, Scorponok turned away from the fear-stricken and fleeing humans, and scuttled back to the ex-Enforcer’s side.

Barricade bent down to give Frenzy a boost into the rocket’s command space. Thank Primus they had mecha small enough to fit where human pilots normally would -- he’d seen Soundwave remotely direct transports of all types, provided those transports had coherent, stable electrical systems, of course. Neither were adjectives that Barricade normally applied to human construction.

But then, Barricade thought, tracing the shape of the rocket’s fragile plating, the ebb and flow of heat as systems cycled through their test phases, they really didn’t have much choice, now did they?

 

**********

 

From orbit, the scope of the destruction was glaring, laid bare, in a way that no human news-reports or overheard whispers from the Autobot tacnet could manage. Over the course of a few joors, smoke had boiled up to shroud most of the southwest United States, a bubble of dull yellow-red haze that stood up from the thin film of the planet’s atmosphere like a cancer. The invaders were flecks of ash against that infected background, larger masses of destroyers descending slowly through the murk, smaller smears of droneslaves deployed to scour the surrounding area.

Dead center, farthest above the Autobot embassy, the fleet’s lead ship floated over the chaos, a great shadow of ruination.

And Barricade knew why it was keeping its distance. Despite his time on Earth, his optics were just as sharp as ever, and more than good enough to pick out the telltale signs of a Siggrath colonization and ‘recycling’ station, the kind of ship that would land once all resistance was extinguished. Great spindles housed molecular extractors and drills that could burrow to the heart of a planet, vast collapsed bays could be expanded with rare or valuable substances: iridium, genetic material… and of course stasis-locked slaves of every sort, packed two-by-two to be sold across the galaxy as novelties, or kept, modified and propagated to fuel further conquests.

They wouldn’t be able to propagate Cybertronians; better engineers than the Siggrath had tried. But all Cybertronian technology was valuable, and the hatchlings themselves were an empire’s ransom. A few dozen Cybertronians could easily be made into a formidable fighting force anywhere in the galaxy, every bit the equal of a full battle fleet for most races. A few dozen Cybertronians plus a Prime… well. That was a future that Barricade didn’t care to see.

 _//S-secondary boosters free,//_ Frenzy reported. There came a suspicious pause. _//P-pretty sure those were supposed ta f-fall off like that. I think.//_

_//You think!? Pieces of this fragging ship are just fragging falling off, right and left -- whaddya mean, you think--//_

_//Hey, don’t touch that! They w-were empty anyway, so--//_

_//Empty! You might not have noticed, but this cogsucking *bottle rocket* needs what was in those tanks to perform complicated maneuvers like, yanno, going *up*, so--//_

_Long tars_ us hooks crowded in front of Barricade, latching securely to the internal weld lines and joints of the little space vehicle. Scorponok pressed an optic to the tiny port window. _//No rearguard, no sentinels, no alert,//_ the angular mech hissed, pedipalps flexing. _//Why, why?//_

 _//Simple,//_ Ratbat murmured smugly, from his secure hold in his carrier’s docks. _//Recyclons have limited object detection, and this planet sports an abundance of orbiting debris. A rearguard wouldn’t do them any good.//_

 _//To them, we just look like the humans’ space-junk.//_ Barricade felt the corners of his mouthparts drawing back, a facsimile of a human-style smile writ all in long, sharp dentae. _//We’ll drift in nice and quiet. Low power.//_ He and Scorponok could both do a lot of damage, if they could get inside one of those scrapheaps without detection.

_//Affirmative. Rumble, Frenzy: disengage cargo containment.//_

_//Finally,//_ muttered Scorponok as the last of the atmosphere boiled out. The click of his knife-edged pede tips faded away, lost to vacuum, both air and mech escaping as the clamshell bay door yawned gradually open. As soon as there was space enough, Barricade likewise magnetised his palms and swung himself to the outside of the little human rocket, where he had a clear view of the drop. He cycled his vents a few times to equalize internals, clearing bubbles of uncomfortable pressure from his lines.

Soundwave followed, maneuvering carefully. The opening of the cargo door wasn’t much greater than his blocky chest. His two mechkin, still squabbling, seemed to have figured out their own airlocks, and were making their way down to the cargo end. Barricade blinked. _//You’re coming too?//_

 _//In a manner of speaking,//_ Laserbeak supplied, glyphs elegantly smooth despite issuing from within his carrier’s chest. _//Other tasks demand our attention, but we shall be nearby.//_

The gradual rotation of the rocket left Soundwave himself in shadow, indistinguishable from the black sweep of space, save for the crimson gleam of visor and biolights. _//Your objective: reversal of fleet shields,//_ the spylord instructed.

Barricade hesitated. _//That’s going to take getting into the factory ship, isn’t it?//_ A little havoc was one thing; sneaking into the most heavily-guarded part of the fleet, in order to sabotage the most heavily-guarded piece of equipment in the fleet, was quite another. Soundwave only regarded him, impassive, and Barricade heaved a vent. Why was it always up to him to save the world? _//And even if we do get in by some miracle, you know I’ve spent the last tenth of a vorn on this mudball, right? I’m not exactly what you’d call well equipped.//_

 _//G-good thing miracle-ing’s our m-middle name then, huh?//_ Rumble and Frenzy came floating by, pedes first, making exaggerated swimming motions in the vacuum as if fighting against some invisible riptide. _//We gotchya covered, bro. Catch!//_ Rumble pulled a folded metal packet out of subspace and pitched it at him. Barricade reflexively unlimbered his grappler, snatching it before it could sail merrily past, into the endless expanse of space.

 _//Careful!//_ he snarled. _//You know how easy it is to lose--//_ He stopped, pulling the device inward. At the touch of his talons, it flowered open, deceptively harmless in appearance, exposed circuits flexing like the petals of an anemone. _//This … where in the Pit did you get *this*?//_

 _//Oh, just a little something for a rainy day.//_ Rumble bared little dentae in a fierce grin. _//Think you can do something with a host of circuit worms?//_

Barricade’s own faceplates lifted, mandibles spreading into an anticipatory smile. _//You know, I just might be able to think of a thing or two.//_

 

**********

 

_Autobot embassy, present day._

 

The Recyclons, preoccupied by Earth’s stubborn Cybertronian defenders, had not bothered with anything more than the most rudimentary perimeter scans.

That proved to be their final--and fatal--mistake.

A massive explosion shattered the hull of the fourth destroyer, coring the massive ship and lighting up the singed sky with the searing white light of a magnesium fire. The very alloys themselves, armor built to withstand a battleship’s bombardment, burned, evaporating into component elements under the impact of the blast. The destroyer shuddered, cannons swivelling as they tried to track the new threat.

A silver form arched over the destroyer’s immense bulk, spiralling insolently close to the hull. But this was no Seeker; these wings were the slashing X of a triplechanger, gleaming gunmetal gray, the glowing mounts of massive cannons beneath. Even at a distance, there was no mistaking that alt, even as it trailed death and destruction in its wake. Tyrant and rebel, traitor and savior. The last Lord High Protector of Cybertron.

Megatron.

The destroyer’s guns fired, immense plasma blasts tearing through the atmosphere as they desperately tried to target their foe. But Megatron was already beyond their reach, climbing upwards in a vicious curve. And behind him, new explosions blossomed upon the invader’s hull as cruisers and scoutships descended from above, armor glowing red with the heat of their entry. From the Cybertronian ships new attacks launched: Decepticons in cometary alts. The energy shields that might have deflected the terrible hail crumpled like film under the onslaught. Protected behind their heavy armor, fueled by gravity and sheer mass, warframed strike groups punched into the hulls of the remaining destroyers.

 _//Wha-- what the slag is *Megatron* doing here?//_ Skywarp hissed, even as he and the others raced to rejoin the battlefield. He ignored the ache of scorched armor and the insistent pings that warned of empty tanks, jinking and weaving through drones and plummeting Decepticons alike.

 _//It appears he’s here to save our afts,/_ / Thundercracker remarked. _//Question is, why?/_ / One of the destroyers tried to launch a new wave of drones from one of its undamaged bays. Thundercracker dove, building charge--then released a sonic blast that sent the codecrippled slaves tumbling, slamming back into each other and the interior of the ship. Launching two of his remaining missiles at the open bay, he banked, accelerating away as it exploded into an inferno. _//If he comes after us--//_

 _//If he comes after us, we grab the hatchlings and retreat,//_ Starscream snapped, even as Prowl added, _//There is nothing to be won in standing against him here.//_ They tore across the sky, Skywarp and Thundercracker flickering into place, wings and minds aligned together in perfect synchronicity. _//But until he shows his hand--we will fight. Megatron will not take this victory from us!//_

The strikes and impacts of huge parts of ships into the ground were a thunder all their own, a roar that vibrated through the entire battlefield, through the embassy, through the wounded and the teetering piles of crushed debris alike.

While the murk lay too thick to glimpse anything happening in the stratosphere, the tacnet provided a whirlwind of impressions for those still on the ground, glimpses through the chaos at the edge of space. Decepticon warframes rained down, a terrible meteor hail. Small ships raced between the invaders, unleashing white-hot laser fire and serving as mobile gunnery platforms for warframes with even heavier weaponry. And through it all: the subsonic roar of Megatron’s enormous flight engines, underscoring the chaos of battle.

“And now the Pit-cursed Slagmaker. Why am I not surprised?” Ratchet groused. With core systems now stable, he continued working, patching rent after rent in Optimus’ internals. Essential systems were coming online now, one after another, stuttering and then stabilizing under that expert touch. Springer had managed to transform groggily, but still stood over them both, twisted rotors spread overhelm to deflect falling chunks of half-molten drone. Nearby, a grim Sunstreaker stood guard, weapons at the ready.

“Sideswipe’s on his way,” he reported, staring upwards as if his optics could pierce the radiation storm to the battle within. The Autobots had never been more vulnerable. Kup and the others were trying to regroup, but they would have to dig out. Cybertronians were tough, but large numbers of their front-line mecha had been knocked offline or immobilized in the Recyclons’ last attack. That left mainly the airborne forces still active -- and three quarters of them were Decepticon. If Megatron wanted to wipe the Autobots out in one shot, he couldn’t have picked a better time. Every micron of his frame tensed as Sunstreaker looked back down, to the lone Decepticon in their midst.

Grabber raised his hands. “Don’t you fragging point that thing at me,” he growled, armor shifting forward. Grabber might be running on half his normally functional hardware, but the glossy yellow freak was also banged up pretty bad, and anyway Grabber wasn’t the kind of mech who’d tuck tail and run at the least shifty movement. On the third hand, the yellow frontliner had a reputation ten filium long of shooting first and asking questions never. So there was that.

“I’ll point it anywhere I like, ‘Con,” Sunstreaker snarled, high-performance engines rumbling to underscore the threat.  

“How’s about you point it straight up your exhau--” Grabber snapped his buccal unit shut. “Oh frag me. It’s Megatron.” He started to turn, stumbling over debris as his tensors tried to move too quickly.

“Just figured that out, huh? Hold up, you’re --” Sunstreaker started forward as the Decepticon tankframe backed towards the embassy, field radiating panic.

“You stupid fragger, if he knows--!”

But before violence erupted, another elemental force intervened. “Enough!” Ratchet barked. “Sunstreaker, let him go -- we’ve got bigger problems, in case you underclocked idiots haven’t noticed!” He glanced away from Optimus just long enough to give Sunstreaker a glare. It was all the opportunity that Grabber needed; the tankframe fled without a backward glance. But there was no time to decipher the Decepticon’s sudden distress, not with boards still sparking and -- and then the frame beneath his hands moved.

“R-Ratchet?” Optimus’ vocalizer stuttered, crackling with static. “What--?”

“Optimus,” Tools folding back, Ratchet caught at their Prime as he tried to sit up. “No--Optimus, don’t move. I need to patch these leaks--”

“Have to … I fell?” Blue optics flickered as unarchived memory pushed its way the fore, Optimus’s backup systems rallying the necessary resources for higher functioning. “I--the battle, what happened--I need to get up. Need to get out there--”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Ratchet snapped. “Not until I’m sure you’re stable. Besides, it looks like the Slagmaker has things well in hand.” For the moment, at least. As if to punctuate his words, another destroyer crashed to the ground several miles away--this time mostly intact. It collapsed into the blasted earth with a titanic crash, kicking up a new stormfront of dust and debris, Decepticon warframes riding it all the way down. There was groundfire as well, as newly-arrived mecha unfolded from cometary mode and came up shooting. Above it all, Megatron’s triplechanger alt carved through the murk, a consummate predator in search of his next target.

“Megatron?” Optimus echoed, optics spiralling wide as scans and the tacnet confirmed his own visual input. “How--”

Ratchet snorted, a chuffing ex-vent that turned into a choking sputter as vents clogged with fine particles. “Either he’s got the best Pit-cursed timing in the galaxy, or someone’s got another interstellar communications array on the damn planet.”

“Megatron …” Optimus murmured.

The loss of a fourth destroyer seemed to make the Siggrath hesitate. The remainder of their fleet hung at the edge of the stratosphere, the vast obliterating bulk of the mothership even further above. Then the Recyclons seemed to come to a decision. The ships began to turn, moving away from each other and rising upwards.

 _//They are retreating-!//_ the exultant message rippled across the combined Autobot-Decepticon tacnet, echoing from so many minds that it was difficult to tell the source.

Their victory, however, did not last long.

 _//No. They are repositioning,//_ came Prowl’s reply, laden with urgent modifiers _. //They will target the planet itself. With the main ship’s tools, they can crack open the crust and trigger enough volcanic activity to destabilize this entire region--perhaps even the whole of the biosphere.//_ Projections and numbers flew at the speed of thought. The Cybertronians would have nothing of strategic consequence left to defend… and they would depart, leaving a sundered world to the scavengers. It had been the pattern for countless ages, after all: Decepticons and Autobots, both squabbling over sites, civilizations, resources, until nothing was left… then moving on, in pursuit of their neverending war.

 _//No! We must not allow them--//_ With Ratchet’s and Springer’s help, Optimus struggled to his pedes, swaying, even as the medic snarled curses and kept working on newly-fractured mechanisms.

 _//You, Optimus, are hardly in a position to prevent anything,//_ came Megatron’s reply, darkly amused, steeped in violence. _//I, on the other hand, came well prepared. Bring them down.//_

 _//Soundwave: acknowledges.//_ The new transmission cut through both sides with impunity, breaking into the tacnet despite Blaster’s best efforts, swamping all other efforts at communication, resounding in every audial. And its source ….

The Recyclon mothership.


	30. Chapter 30

_Earlier..._

 

The last of the circuit worms vanished, wriggling, into the exposed dataport.

Barricade stood up, tucked the empty canister away, and dusted off his talons as the squirming little trojans went to work. Out of all the weapons that Cybertronians used against alien races, the thread-like drones were probably his favorite. Boosted with a couple extra viruses he’d patched together, the trojans would just keep going, building, interpreting and forwarding protocols on top of foreign code, remapping software, physically reaching even systems that were supposed to be isolated from the rest of the ship’s network … slaving them all, one by one, to Barricade’s control.

Base-level terminals and garbage chutes reported in. Why yes, thank you, Barricade did in fact want to nearby terminal access authorizations for all other users.

The cascade hack would reach everything the worms could touch -- which on a Cybertronian ship, with advanced AI and plenty of physical and electronic defenses, wasn’t much. They were next to useless against a mech. But against most alien networks… well. It wasn’t for nothing that Cybertronians were universally feared.

The downside, unfortunately, was that it would take time for circuit worms to reach core systems. The drones were, for the most part, mindless mechanisms, burrowing blindly through every system they could reach without regard for their overall importance. It would take at least a half-joor before they gave Barricade effective control of the ship, and he should probably try to keep the Siggrath distracted if he didn’t want them to discover his hack before it was complete. That was fine. Barricade could do distraction.

Barricade had to give the Siggrath one thing--at least they built their ships big. After several Earth-years spent confined to his alt or squeezing his way in and out of tiny, ridiculously fragile organic structures, the vaulted corridors and oversized hatchways were a relief. _//Finally, some room to maneuver,//_ he remarked to Scorponok.

The smaller mech sent back a brusque intertwined glyph of _negation/amusement_. _//Oversized ship for an oversized mech.//_ Scorponok had been sparked to burrow, to dig and thrive in tight spaces and new-carved tunnels. Just the thought of being buried alive made an involuntary shudder run down Barricade’s backstruts, but Scorponok actually enjoyed it. Crazy mech.

The facility was extensively automated: hanging hooks on trolleys zipped along the ceiling some eight mechanometers overhelm, some of them hauling trapezoidal containers of who-knew-what to destinations unknown. Even a class-5 construction mech wouldn’t have had a problem standing to full height in these oddly-ribbed hallways. Might have trouble seeing, though. This part of the ship was dim and cold, pressurised to maybe three atmospheres, with far too much argon and oxygen for Barricade’s tastes. Hydrocarbon condensates dripped from the vaulted ceilings, and the metal of the walls was bonded with something that felt not quite solid to the talons. Some kind of cellulose matrix, perhaps. Either way, it was unpleasant.

Barricade squinted through the mist and gloom, switching to heat refraction lenses. It didn’t help much -- either the machinery that surrounded him was inefficient, or the solvent-rich atmosphere gradually deteriorated lubricating oils. Either way, the result was the same, the equipment all around him giving off interference in the form of rippling heat-patterns. Tetrahertz imaging was no help. Local comm stations reported in, so Barricade piggypacked into them, switching optics to variance-based radio… hn. Well, something fairly dense was moving around. The continuous shuffling of crates overhead helped map the layout of the corridors, too, in a makeshift way.

In for a wire, in for a circuit, so far as Barricade was concerned. The thick atmosphere hissed across his plating with a chill and acrid sting, though at least the wind was tolerable this far down the warren of corridors. The breeze was proof enough that the compressor station behind him remained open, leaking pressure to the outside. Getting back out shouldn’t be too much trouble. “Take a look around,” he told the dripping darkness. “You know what to do.”

Scorponok’s form was barely visible in the murk. The saboteur tapped in acknowledgment, a staccato rap of metal on metal. There was a skittering scrape, the briefest glimpse of a wickedly barbed tail arcing through the haze; then the other mech was gone. Not that Barricade had expected much of an answer--Scorponok had never been one for using two glyphs when one would do. Settling his plating into ambush configuration, Barricade queued up battle-protocols, unlimbered an armgun, and went exploring.

This portion of the ship was surprisingly barren of life; both drones and Recyclons seemed to be in short supply. Possibly that was due to the low security nature of the section he was in, though Barricade thought the hull breach, at least, would have brought more attention. Instead the halls were echoing and empty. Were the Siggrath so overconfident that they no longer bothered to keep a sufficient force onboard to secure their own ships? It made sense, in a way: the central factory ship typically did not approach a world until it had been thoroughly stripped of all defenders, along with all other life the Siggrath deemed unworthy of harvesting. Or was the lack of guards a symptom of desperation, rather than overconfidence? The Siggrath had a formidable force, but a large fleet demanded an equally large amount of resources. Siggrath were parasites in the truest sense--they did not claim territory so much as devour it, leaving cindered husks of once-living worlds behind. If their scouts had not found them any suitable worlds of late, perhaps it had forced them to recycle the slaves that would normally guard these corridors….

The sparse amber lighting in the vaulted hallway flickered--strobing briefly before settling. _**peripheral environmental systems=transferring control**_ New systems reported in, courtesy of the circuit worms--humidity, pressure equalization, fire control, materials recycling.

“So now I can make the walls less drippy. Wonderful. Now go find me something with a little more teeth, you worthless pieces of scrap,” Barricade muttered under his breath. “Antigrav, propulsion, internal security--even the Prime-cursed door codes would be--”

A hatchway just beside him hissed open, and a couple of tripedal semi-organics stepped out. Probably Kueddoth, from the body conformation and gait, although they’d been loaded down with so much Siggrath circuitry that it was difficult to tell. They paused for just an astrosecond, obviously taken aback at the sight of a Cybertronian warframe in the middle of their ship.

That astrosecond was all Barricade needed.

He dove under the first creature’s uncoordinated strike, firing upwards. The lignin of the creature’s long, clawlike arm splintered, steaming under the impact of his acid-bearing pellets. A sharp leg came down, missed… and then Barricade was directly under the sentry’s cupped, triangular torso. Perfect. His tactical programming had already identified vulnerabilities, critical targets.

With a thought, he unloaded a volley of micromissiles. Shrieking, the thing dissolved into woody chunks and a fine milky paste, the missiles shattering pieces across the length of the corridor. Barricade slid out from beneath, using momentum to roll back up onto his pedes as fragments of crystalline Siggrath circuitry rained down and clattered off his armor. One spindly leg, divorced from the rest of the destroyed creature, swayed… and then fell with a heavy thump like a log, still twitching.

Barricade cycled his armgun, ejecting a spent cartridge and catching it deftly in midair. It was good to see that he hadn’t quite lost all his agility, considering all the organic detritus he currently had clogging up his joints. What he wouldn’t give for some competent maintenance ... “I thought your species were supposed to be irredeemable pacifists,” Barricade said dryly.

The remaining Kueddoth didn’t appear to be impressed, and if its race still valued a tranquil existence, this specimen was a definite outlier. Issuing high-pitched clicks and unfazed by the death of its companion, the creature lunged after him, swinging its many-jointed limbs like clubs. Barricade folded out a short energon blade, danced out of the reach of the first swing, and leaped in behind the wild strike, pedes carving grooves in the spongy-metallic decking.

He slashed--only to have his attack meet a wall of thorns. Not organic brambles that he could have torn through with ease, but a weave of carbon and crystal as strong as tristeel, with barbed tips that stabbed deep into any gap in his armor and splintered there. The thorns lashed outwards on whipcord tendrils from the Kueddoth’s torso, snarling limbs and tearing deep into any part of his frame not fully covered by armor plate.

The splinters kept fracturing, like molecular tridents, digging into deep lines and conduits. Main gun thoroughly wrapped, Barricade hacked through a thick limb with his plasma-dripping shortsword, planted a pede right over the creature’s cluster of eye-nodes, and * _kicked_.* The bases of three ropy tendrils sheared free of the Kueddoth’s torso with sprays of sticky white fluid, their thorns still locked in the mech’s frame -- but Barricade was momentarily free, vaulting up and over the thing’s shield-like back. He landed blade-first, puncturing through bark-like hide, talons and pede-tips tearing holds. The Kueddoth shrieked, flailing at him even as Barricade sawed upwards, fluid and chunks of splinters flying in all directions, obscuring his view.

With a roar, Barricade dragged his blade up through the top portion of the Kueddoth, splitting its torso in a Y shape. But the thing just kept lashing out, its remaining tendrils whipping thorns into every gap in his armor, careening across the corridor and slamming into walls under the mech’s weight. “Slagging--” he snarled, stabbing awkwardly downward. Primus--what did have to do to kill this thing? Feed it into a slagging reclamation shredder? There had to be a neural center somewhere in this mess.

“Frag this,” he growled, finally giving up on the blade. Freeing an arm, he activated internal mechanisms, his armgun ratcheting into a new configuration. Time to stop playing around. He jammed the blunted barrel down into the Kueddoth’s wounded torso. “Eat plasma, you walking bit of scrapweed!” He fired, launching the explosive shell at point-blank range.

The blast tore the Kueddoth into shreds, rattling the corridor. It also flung Barricade away, across the cavernous space, crashing into a far wall with stunning force. Barricade shook his helm, levering himself upwards, the floor squishing unpleasantly under his weight as he staggered upright. The Kueddoth--was little more than confetti. There were a few larger chunks littering the floor, but nothing identifiable. Nothing big enough to regenerate, either.

Barricade extracted himself from the debris and fluids, plating flicking in disgust. Self-repair systems started filling his queues with red flags -- almost all the shallower fuel lines around his flanks and back were reporting pinpoint leaks. Worse, he’d be leaving a trail of his own energon behind him, since the leaks wouldn’t stop until autorepair managed to dissolve the thorn fragments still embedded in his armor. Just fragging great.

Alright then. No more hand-to-hand combat with Kueddoth.

Somewhat belatedly, as chunks of the enslaved guards slopped down the wall, sirens began to wail. Barricade cast a jaundiced look up at the nearest cluster of lenses, mounted high up on the wall. “Took you long enough.” If this had been a Decepticon ship, he never would have gotten this far, much less had to let loose a bunch of circuit worms and then *blow something up* to get noticed. Good thing the Siggrath weren’t up to Decepticon standards.

Still, the last thing he wanted to do was get pinned down. He broke into a swift lope, heading down towards the new corridor, where the Kueddoth had come from. Odds were that the Siggrath wouldn’t waste their few guards on something without value. Maybe the AI centers were in that direction -- and with luck, the associated fleet shield controls.

 _**auxiliary loading bays and stasis dampers=transferring control**_ the circuit worms reported helpfully, and Barricade growled. “Oh stasis dampers now, is it? What the frag am I supposed to do with--”

The corridor lights flickered, environmental systems hiccupping--and then went out entirely, plunging the ship into darkness.

 _//Can thank me later,//_ Scorponok reported smugly, _violence/satisfaction/killing-intent_ coloring the glyphs. Apparently the saboteur had made more progress than Barricade. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself, at least.

Emergency lighting flickered fitfully -- barely perceptible through the gloom -- and then it too failed, leaving the corridor in pitch darkness. Which, to a Cybertronian, meant almost nothing at all. Better yet, the ventilation systems remained offline--and very quickly, the temperature began to rise, curling hydrocarbon steam from every damp surface.

 _//Nice one,//_ Barricade sent, grudgingly giving Scorponok his due. The Siggrath were going to be scrambling now. Perhaps the circuit worms were a bit more useful than he had thought. With any luck, the two mecha could lead the invaders on a merry chase, and keep them from realizing what Barricade was *really* after.

Raised markings and dots in clusters, reflective to Barricade’s short range sonar, seemed to denote some manner of writing, and the ceilings were taller, the occasional doorways broader -- this part of the ship was clearly adapted for some different purpose. Maybe he was finally getting somewhere.

And then the way dead-ended in the biggest hatchway of them all.

Barricade contemplated the ostentatious barrier for a moment, gauging the heat of its mechanisms, the sonar reflectivity of its cladding. Then, with a shrug, Barricade found the most likely concentration of wiring under the bulkhead. And shot it.

Klaxons redoubled their blaring as the hatch lurched halfway open, affording the flicker of a sonic snapshot of the chamber beyond: a massive space, with a great deal of moving machinery, and plenty of complex heat signatures. Maybe the shielding equipment, he couldn’t tell from here, but--

Staggering pedes clattered on the decking. The sound was too heavy-footed to be Scorponok--more like sensor-blinded mecha trying to feel their way through the darkness. Recyclons, most likely, poor mimicries of true Cybertronians, drone-slaves assembled and controlled by their Siggrath overlords. Timing the sounds carefully, Barricade waited, chambered additional solid rounds into his armgun… and then dove through the hatch.

Right into the middle of a swarm of blind Recyclons.

Barricade plowed into the guards without slowing down, breaking their formation with brutal efficiency. He slid under wild swings, armor shifting to protect against ricochets, secondary sensor suites using infrared and sonar telemetry to track his opponents’ movements. A precise stab of his energon blade up into a power source, and a Recyclon shrieked, convulsing. He ripped it free, the shower of sparks blazing against the darkness, spinning, firing. No explosive shells this time, not in close quarters like these. Armor-piercing rounds worked much better, scoring armor, taking out optics, so that the Recyclons couldn’t even capitalize on the light cast by Barricade’s weapons.

The fight was brutal, and over within astroseconds. One of the Recyclons might live; Barricade couldn’t afford to spend the time for a coup de grace, though he did boot a body across the open hatchway, just in case the door tried to close behind him. Soundwave hadn’t told him how long he had to complete his mission, but experience had taught Barricade that behind enemy lines, every moment counted.

“Halt, mechslave! Halt, or it will be destroy--”

What the-- the sound came from several sources, probably primitive ship’s speakers set into the ceiling, audible even over the alarms. The words were recognizably Cybertronian, but archaic and accented almost beyond understanding. There was all kinds of equipment here with varying heat and sonic patterns, but no hint at whoever might be speaking, or who might have eyes on him. Fraggitall. _//Scorp, hit the lights.//_

Llights flickered back on, bank upon bank of glowing tubes mounted along the walls warming up to a sickly yellow glow. The room -- as Barricade switched optical input back to standard visible spectrum, it became clear that he was in was some kind of launch bay. The far end of the floor was studded with six ports, like the sealed mouths to individual cells in honeycomb, and surrounded with launch equipment. Disposal chutes, judging by the assorted debris clogging up the edges of the room, perhaps doubling as a means of launching ground troops? Like the rest of the ship, they seemed a bit oversized; each of the pads would likely hold half a dozen mecha.

Then Barricade saw the reason for the size of the pads, strapped against each wall. There were six of them, vaguely mechlike but equipped with four long digitigrade legs, helmless and with great gaping voids in the chest section. They bristled with alien weaponry, and simple drones trundled up and down them, loading all manner of artillery into various chambers. Armored, planetary exploration suits, then, for… ah.

Each encased in some kind of rubbery, clear sac, five Siggrath were being painstakingly loaded into their suits. Or at least, they resembled the images Barricade had on file for the self-styled ‘lords’-- formless, tentacled globs, about the size of a human but far denser, pebbled gray surface-flesh pulsing as they filtered the liquid methane contained in their pressurised sacs, the fluid recirculated by a twisted internal warren of supporting tubes and pumps. Between the smooth curve of their sacs and the refrigerated fluid within, they’d been almost invisible in the darkness. Three were still ensconced in smaller mechanized harnesses, equipped with broad fins and primitive antigravs that allowed them to swim, in an awkward fashion, through the pressurised air; another two had left their conveyances behind and were being painstakingly winched towards their larger suits by more Recyclon lackeys.

The small exoskeletons had no space for large weapons. Except -- the last Siggrath had found itself one, anyway.

“Halt! The mechslave will be destroyed! The exalted Siggrath know its secret, know its weakness!”

Barricade flexed his talons, still dripping with the Recyclons’ fluids, and started forwards. “Oh really. You know our secret weakness, do you.”

“Halt halt!” The Siggrath lord extended another tentacle through the side of its sac, some kind of self-extruding airlock. Whatever thin skin of coating the technology applied to the lashing limb seemed poorly-equipped to deal with the rising temperature. The tentacle seemed to bloat slowly, varying shades of sickly gray washing over the surface. But the Siggrath just jerked at the controls of the heavy tube-like weapon it had hauled onto its low-floating exoskeleton. It didn’t seem very used to the hand-cannon; perhaps its attendant Recyclons would normally have handled such a weapon. Possibly even the same ones scattered across the floor behind Barricade.

“The mechslave dares?” the Siggrath snarled, its broadcast voice rising into a piercing shriek. “It will scream-dying! Fire will feed upon its essence, devour within--”

Barricade glanced down to the seams of his armor. Pinkish processed energon still dripped from the multitude of pinprick tears in his subsurface fuel lines. It was annoying, but little more than that. The leaks might prove troublesome in the next thirty joors or so, if he didn’t take the time to boost his repair nanites and get the gummy stuff out of his joints. Oxygen layered thick all around them, an invisible miasma. Then he looked back up at the alien weapon. It took about an astrosecond to put two and two together.

“Let me guess. You’ve got a flamethrower,” Barricade said.

“Slave-shifter will flee, it will retrea--”

With an irritated exvent, Barricade charged.

Shrieking, chittering a mismatch of Cybertronian and whatever passed for a language with the Siggrath, the creature opened fire. Literally. The heavy tube coughed, then launched a jet of white-hot flame. It carved through the air, arcing several mechanometers to engulf Barricade and everything around him in an inferno. Behind him, something shrieked in agony--an attendant who had been caught in the backwash of the flames. Barricade didn’t stop or bother to look. His armor shifted forward, vents reflexively narrowing, baffles closing within his intakes to block the flames. The energon on his plating ignited, adding to the firestorm, but suppression systems pinched off peripheral lines, rerouted energon away from hotspots, shuffled oxidation-vulnerable metals closer to his core.

The flames did manage to scorch his silver plating, however, surface nanites turning black where they were slagged by the heat. Which was going to _itch_ , fraggitall, but somehow Barricade didn’t think that was what the Siggrath was aiming for. Optic lenses were worse than useless in this kind of inferno, and Barricade had shuttered them instinctively. It didn’t matter--he’d gotten a good lock on the Siggrath before the blob had opened fire. Three more strides, and he backhanded the flamethrower out of the thing’s tentacled grip, sending it flying. Flames still licking across his plating, Barricade lashed out with his other hand, sinking talons into the thing’s harness and slamming it into the nearest bulkhead.

Barricade exhaled flames; an inferno crawled his frame, crimson glowing from every seam. The tubing around his larger wounds simultaneously tightened its molecular structure to deny the fire access to more volatile ions, and dumped oxygen-sequestering compounds into his circulating energon. But the energon already spilled burned hot, a coruscating wildfire. “That wasn’t very nice,” Barricade said mildly, unshuttering his optics.

The Siggrath burbled in fear, thrashing wildly; more tentacles pushed their way out of its protective suit, only to recoil as they instantly began expanding in the heat, the delicate surfaces hissing steam. “Hold still a klik while I take care of a few things …” Two of the other Siggrath were almost in their armor, and Barricade wasn’t inclined to see how hard it was to pry them out of their shells. Lifting his armgun, he opened fire, the heavy slugs punching holes through both the Siggrath and delicate internals of their exo-armor. Circuitry smoked and spat, the Siggrath emitting shrill, bubbling screams as their protective sacs were punctured, liquid methane spilling out, instantly vaporizing upon contact with the bay’s heated air. Their fleshy, unarmored bodies fared little better against Barricade’s acid bullets. They might be dead, it was hard to tell -- but even if they weren’t, they definitely weren’t going anyplace soon.

“Now, where were we?” Barricade tilted his helm, optics narrowed to pinpoints, dentae bared. “Ah yes. You were going to tell this ‘mechslave’ what your fleet shield control codes were.”

“Foul inferior subcreature!” the Siggrath shrieked. “You are nothing, a mechslave not even worthy of service! The Siggrath shall never--urk!” the Siggrath’s gelatinous form impacted against another wall. Barricade sighed.

“Let’s try this again.” Deliberately scraping talons along one of the burning blobs of energon that flamed over his armor, Barricade leaned forward, pressing the tips of his now-flaming talons against the surface of the Siggrath’s protective sac. “You seem to think Cybertronians are terribly flammable. Can’t blame you, really. We probably were--once. A few hundred million vorns ago.” Those talons pressed in, delicately, and the sac began to blacken from the heat. The slaver gave a burbling whimper. “But we’re not anymore. How about you? Shall we find out whether the Siggrath are still flammable?”

The Siggrath keened, flailing and howling invectives in Cybertronian and several other languages. Pedes pounded the decking behind Barricade, as at least some of the other Recyclons abandoned their wounded masters and charged.

“How inconvenient,” Barricade commented, and found the garbage chute codes the circuit worms had given him. With a rapid series of clunks, the clamps drew back from the each of the pads -- and then the hatches flew open. The ship’s pressure field wasn’t up to the task of keeping the atmosphere fully contained, not with six gaping holes in the hull. Barricade magnetised his pedes to the wet decking as the open chutes sucked wind.

Debris, pieces of equipment, and silent Recyclon drones alike were dragged out into the void, to fall flailing… towards the rippling sand and smoke of the Autobot embassy far below.

“One last chance,“ Barricade said, energon fumes and crimson flame flaring wildly over his plating, the inferno whipped higher by the wind. With a heave, he wrenched the Siggrath’s pulpy pouch around, dangling it over the unending atmospheric drop. Crude antigravs kept the ship from falling; they clearly did nothing for a creature caught outside the vessel, not at this speed and elevation. Encased in mangled and sparking tubes, all that remained of its harness, the Siggrath howled. “Tell me the fleet’s shield codes.”

“Mechslave will surrender! Other Siggrath there are on this vessel, will be told--”

More where these ones came from? Just what Barricade liked to hear. One flaming palm, one little push. “Whoops,” Barricade mused, leaning out to watch the Siggrath spiral rapidly towards the planetary surface it had so wanted to wipe clean. Apparently, there were enough oxygen-rich compounds in those fluids and clear sacs to sustain a merry little fire, even in the upper stratosphere -- how interesting. Too bad Swindle wasn’t here. He could have taken bets on the manner of the creature’s demise: incineration, explosive decompression, or good old hitting the ground.

“What’s that?” Barricade queried, rubbing his hands together to spreading flaming energon between them. He turned and started back towards the rest of the self-styled ‘Lords’, cupping fireballs of gummy, sullenly-burning energon in each fist. The remaining Siggrath, stripped of their caretakers, quaked. “Why yes, I do need another volunteer. Now...”

Barricade picked one, leaned in close, a nightmare of blackened plating and heat-glowing steel. “...who wants to be next?”

 

**********

 

Two hundred miles above the planet’s slowly-turning surface, Soundwave spread his sensor panels to warm their photovoltaics in the star’s hot wind, a welcome balm against the chill exosphere. Here, in the quiet and the cold, Soundwave could truly stretch: in all manner of ways.

The symbionts, as in all things, came first -- bundles of seething anticipation nestled down inside their docks: Buzzsaw’s whorling and brilliant pink glyphs of delight in purposeful destruction, Laserbeak’s refined, fractaline lacework of hope. Ratbat was a smoke-hazed ball of purple, cored with black like an event horizon, perhaps lost in a dream that transcended realities. Rumble and Frenzy, side by side, piggybacking into his sensors and monitoring protocols, exchanging victorious shouts and commentary as they watched the Autobot tacnet, the action on the invaders’ ships.

And Ravage. Wary, vigilant, nuanced through and through, as beautiful and as wild as uncharted galaxies, the big cybercat waited.

Beyond, the planet seethed with data. The networks still online hummed with transmissions, servers groaned under their backlog as they refused connections and pinged contacts that could not answer. When whole and undamaged, the human information grid had been a disordered morass of conflicting protocols and cross-purposed architectures. Now, after days of bombardment, it was a wreckage… and yet still an order of magnitude more complex than Soundwave had encountered just eight solar revolutions ago. Some part of him still longed to comb through that chaos, to rank the data, organize it all into neat packets and to clear up clogged routes --

\-- but that time was past, and Soundwave turned his attention elsewhere.

In between the safely docked symbionts and the watery world below, satellites drifted, some offline, some visible only for the smoky coils of simplistic coding they trailed as they raced between Soundwave and the Siggrath ships. Sky Spy, the Autobot satellite, was by comparison a beacon despite currently running in stealth mode -- a strong AI housed in a complex frame, a haven of well-engineered order fixed in the heavens. Cybertronian AIs like this one had once been well on their way towards unsparked sapience, before the onset of the War halted their development. They were digital companions of a sort, pale reminders of a race that had once spanned the stars.

Contemplatively, Soundwave turned his attention to the Siggrath ships, in all their great bulk. The physical mass of the ships themselves was imposing, their size casting great dark shadows over the planet’s surface below. But more than their guns, and their armor, Soundwave saw their coding -- layer upon layer of it, haloed thickly around every port, running invisibly across every plate, every conduit, streaking outward in bright lines of communication.

Once, attempting to hijack such a complex system would have been tantamount to suicide, a slow death of madness as his own core coding was overwhelmed, twisted out of shape. But the war had changed them all, and that time, too, was past.

This would not be a swift process, not against something so large and heavily armored. But in the end, the outcome was inevitable.

Reaching outward, he peeled back the obfuscating layers of enemy code, deftly weaving down through interlocking systems. The Siggrath’s cyberdefenses had never been designed for a technopath, their firewalls worse than useless. Soundwave spread his touch deep, filtering through peripheral systems and down into the heart of the mothership, separating the buzz of a million mechanisms from the routines he wanted.

Tracing those coils of distant coding, mapping out their courses, he encountered the outer shells of the AIs the Siggrath used aboard their ships; sluggish things, heavy with redundancies and logic loops. The Siggrath had no use for a finely-honed and adaptable intelligence--not in their slaves, and not in their AIs. So the guardian minds at the heart of their fleet, from the smallest scoutship to the vast bulk of the mothership itself, were … limited. Not companions but rather constructs, they were literal, incapable of parsing shades of gray or learning anything outside of their original parameters, and above all: they were obedient.

And as Barricade’s circuit worms translated the coding, that obedience became, line by line, Soundwave’s to command.

 _//Malfunctions,//_ Soundwave corrected the AIs, when they detected the initial hull breach and then the following explosions. _//Input error,//_ he told them, deftly inserting false data into i/o terminals when an launch bay unexpectedly depressurised, when wounded Siggrath tried to summon help. They believed him without hesitation, their coding absolute.

In silence, Soundwave waited patiently, following the progress of the circuit worms as system after system was suborned. Anything the worms couldn’t touch, Soundwave marked for later, for more direct intervention. And all the while, he tinkered, making small edits to sabotage error-reports, to camouflage system failures as the Siggrath dispatched ship after ship to be torn apart near the surface, unaware that the systems around them were thoroughly infected.

As Soundwave spoke to the AIs, he tracked their masters. The Siggrath, he saw, had gotten one thing right; the bridge of the factory ship was massively armored, linked to all the other facilities by just a few broad corridors. And, of course, by the communication lines. Those carried a constant barrage of orders, of commands given to drone-slaves and maneuvers between distant destroyers. The messages were tight-banded, encrypted. The messages themselves did not concern Soundwave, even as he reflexively recorded them. Their source, however …

A bright spark of success flashed through the tangle of code that marked Barricade’s presence aboard the factory ship. That would be the shields -- and not a breem too soon, as a familiar, long-range transwarp field began to build just inside the fourth planet’s orbit.

Death would soon be among them, courtesy of that gate. Soundwave really should prepare a proper welcome.

Locking on to his target, calculating trajectories down to the micrometer, Soundwave kicked off against the shell of the now-spent human rocket, neatly adjusting his course. _//Shields: stable,//_ Soundwave prompted, as the shields went down. _//Sensors, reporting within normal parameters,//_ he told the AIs, listening as they unquestioningly echoed the message to their masters. Silently, he turned, optics glowing as the vast, pitted surface of the mothership skimmed by above him, growing closer by the astrosecond. To the Siggrath, he was just another tiny piece of flotsam, tumbling aimlessly in the wake of their monstrous ship--a cobalt speck, invisible against the infinite dark of space.

The ship was close enough now that it blotted out any view of the planet below, an all-encompassing metal shape. In no time at all, the bridge came into full view, an unremarkable bulge in the hull. And down a sharply-curved path next to it, shadowed recesses, marked with indicator lights: lifepods.

Ironic, that--the Siggrath’s own fear of dying would give Soundwave the access he needed. Unlimbering primaries, Soundwave lashed outwards, snagging the pitted metal hull near a pod before he could overshoot his target. Barbed connectors sank into the metal, reeling him in close--and with that contact, Soundwave had everything he needed.

Lifepods were not designed to be entered from the outside. A problem, but not an insurmountable one. Soundwave dove deep, through the thick hull to the peripheral systems buried within, until he found the one he needed, and triggered the emergency release. The pod blew, thrusters firing as it jetted into space--and in the empty cavity it left behind, Soundwave’s overrides ensured the airlock stayed open. Engaging maneuvering thrusters of his own, Soundwave pulled himself in, shifting into his mech form, folding down sensory panels. He settled pedes on the metal decking of the corridor, straightening upward. Behind him, the airlock irised closed, the roar of escaping atmosphere no longer tearing at his plating.

This close to the bridge, physical contact with the ship’s interior was all he needed to solidify dominion over his prey. Taking the bridge itself was a mere, albeit pleasant, formality. Soundwave instructed the ship’s AIs to reset every door code to the same Cybertronian key, including the bridge seal that separated these pods from the command center. Nowhere for the Siggrath to run to -- and as for hiding….

 _//Ravage, Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Ratbat, Rumble, Frenzy: eject,//_ Soundwave commanded, his cohort’s anticipation almost palpable as armor slid away, revealing his docks. _//Objective: locate and neutralize all Siggrath.//_

 _//Awright--time to hunt some squiddies!//_ Rumble said gleefully as he launched himself outward.

 _//Got it, boss,//_ Buzzsaw replied, wings flaring out to full extension as he transformed. _//And you?//_

Soundwave considered the question, watching the arrival of Cybertron’s last battlefleet through the Siggrath ship’s sensors. Twenty-eight. Fewer than thirty ships -- and the fleet was still enough to carry every mech left on Cybertron, every neutral who had cautiously joined upon hearing that the planet was inhabited once more. Perhaps half the scoutships and transports were survivors of the war -- their hulls were many times patched, stubby wings ragged with holes that simply hadn’t been critical enough to waste resources repairing. Some had Decepticon brands painted over older Autobot insignia; some were lucky to have any paint left at all.

But the rest … the rest were relics of a bygone age, colored by the patina of aeons spent buried under cold steel plains, resurrected from the shambles of murdered cities. It seemed as if the ghosts of the planet had risen from their graves for one last fight. Megatron had brought the full remaining might of Cybertron. The fleet had been pushed to full speed before the jump -- they were coming in hot. At maximum engine reversal, shedding as much momentum as possible, the Decepticons would hit atmosphere in just over twelve klicks.

The Siggrath Lords might not yet realize it, but they had already lost everything.

 _//Soundwave: will coordinate fleet, cometary drops.//_ Soundwave’s expression, hidden behind visor and battlemask, gave nothing away. The dark satisfaction in his field, however, was almost palpable. _//Lord Megatron’s arrival, imminent. Soundwave, symbionts: will ensure Siggrath fleet cannot see him coming.//_

**********

 

_//Soundwave! What the Pit is that fragger--//_

_//If that thing fires--//_

_//Can anyone see -- Perceptor, can you make out--//_

_//Is Megatron allied with--//_

_//What the frag is he even here for?//_

_//They seem to be clustering around the central ship -- definitely descending. Is that--?//_

On the ground, Optimus Prime pushed himself unsteadily to his pedes, Ratchet swift to lend a hand when it became clear that the Prime could not be persuaded to remain still.   _//Autobots, Seekers: continue to target any drones that do not flee or surrender. Do not engage with any of Megatron’s forces. As for the Recyclon ships...//_

“We’ve got movement nearby, Optimus,” Sunstreaker had his armor shrugged up defensively, jaggedly. He was running every spare joule of power to his weapons instead of to self-repair, where it belonged.

 _//Fraggitall, Sunstreaker,//_ Ratchet snapped at the frontliner. Transformed into cometary mode, Decepticon groundframes had punched through the aerial battle, devastating the suddenly unshielded destroyers. But now, all around the embassy, those groundframes were rising up on their pedes, plating still hot from their precipitous descent. Even half sensor-blinded by the haze, he could tell they were surrounded. _//We know about the Deceptico--//_

“Not them,” Sunstreaker said quietly, as all the layered slag and debris beneath their pedes began to tremble. “The Giant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our many, many thanks to White Aster, who has been a wonderful beta for most of this story--and especially for her technical help on this chapter. Alien chemistry and biology for the win! ^___^


	31. Chapter 31

A half mile away from the embassy, the smoking rubble heaved. Slowly, inevitably, the blanket of fallen and charcoaled invaders lifted, only to splinter, fracturing apart. Great slagged pieces of metal from the destroyer groaned as they tilted up, sloughed off in a cascade of rubble. From the wreckage, the Giant rose, his metallic roar of challenge shaking the battlefield.

Armored as he was, even the Giant hadn’t escaped the last destroyer’s fall unscathed. The big mech was missing one arm entirely. Two out of his three serpentine sentry guns hung useless and sparking, too damaged to even retract. His heavy armor was mottled black with soot, slagged around the edges, pitted and dented. But it was still whole; and the Giant turned, remaining armgun lifting, scarlet optics scanning the battlefield for the nearest threat.

He had no shortage of targets: the Autobot ground forces were still digging their way out, but any number of Decepticon warframes had landed nearby. The nearest took several steps back, eying the big mech in alarm; a red-armored frontliner lifted his plasma rifle instinctively, armor shifting forward. The Giant zeroed in on the movement with a rumble, massive torso swivelling to face this new danger--

\--and then the Decepticon jerked, optics flickering as he spasmed and collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut. On a nearby rise, Bombshell transformed, rising upwards on two pedes, scarlet optics gleaming with satisfaction.

 _//Soundwave’s orders stand,//_ he broadcast on an open channel. _//No one targets the Giant. His life is Megatron’s to decide. Is that clear?//_

Across the battlefield, weaponry hastily folded away as more Insecticons rose out of their own concealment. Insecticons might be insular and generally disliked, but they had made themselves invaluable to the Decepticon cause, and to Soundwave in particular. A mech might run afoul of one or the other, but any mecha slow-clocked enough to defy both tended to end up worse than dead. If they were lucky, their frames were pieced out, sacrificed to the swarm’s insatiable appetites. If not----they ended up cerebro-shelled into hacked and sparkless husks.

The Giant gave a dissatisfied rumble as the potential threat disappeared, invisible to his targeting amongst the rest of the rubble. One massive pede lifted, crunching down onto the scorched plain as he moved, methodically scanning for the next target, weapons at the ready. Given the damage the big mech had already sustained, all it would take was the merest perception of danger, and the Giant would once again fire on whatever was in his path. Once that happened, even the Insecticons wouldn’t be able to keep the Decepticons from taking out the menace in their midst.

But fear was a potent motivator, and the entire Decepticon army had feared Soundwave far longer than they had this strange and battered creature. Despite the steady fall of molten metals across the hellscape plain, the distant explosions as Seekers hunted down escaping drones and the looming descent of the Siggrath battle fleet, no one moved. No one but the Giant…

...and a single mech.

Decepticons jerked, subsided at Bombshell’s snarled comm. The moving mech was an Autobot; small, just as battered as the Giant, with one sensor wing missing and the other held low, sparking fitfully. He’d been yellow once--still was in places, under the char and congealed chunks of debris. One optic was flickering and dim, and he moved jerkily, in the telltale gait of a mech who had lost power to a few too many support tensors. His stealth mods had fallen offline, leaving him bare to sensor sweeps.

The nearby mecha recognized him anyway. Many of them had fought him, and remembered the ferocity disguised by the cheerful yellow plating. Decepticons shifted uneasily as Bumblebee passed, his single functioning optic fixed on his goal.

Despite the distractions raging above him, the Giant picked up on the moving mech soon enough. His remaining armgun lifted, targeting Bumblebee unerringly, the serpentine sentry gun tracking the movement to target the Autobot as well. There was nothing in that field to indicate the Giant recognized the mech before him--no hint of restraint or mercy. Just scarlet rage and gray death, bare and cold.

Bumblebee stopped, lifted battered hands, showing they were devoid of weapons. “Giant … it’s all right. We’re friends. It’s Bumblebee.” His vocalizer cracked under the strain--imperfectly integrated to begin with, it had taken even more damage. Bumblebee reset it, tried again. “You know me. I would never hurt you.”

 _//Bumblebee, are you glitched? He CAN’T recognize you!//_ Ratchet ordered, his glyphs laden with distress. Bumblebee had fought across some of the worst battlefields of the war, had survived conflicts that had scrapped thousands upon thousands. To lose him here, now, just when there was the barest glimmer of hope in this whole terrible war-- _//Get out of there!//_

 _//I have to try,// c_ ame the stubborn reply. _//If I don’t, the Decepticons will kill him!//_

 _//The Decepticons might kill him anyway,//_ grumbled Kup. _//This is stupid, ‘Bee, even for you.//_

 _//Maybe, but it worked once before,//_ Bumblebee shot back. _//Hogarth was willing to put his life on the line once, to save the Giant. If a human has the gears to stand in front of a mech like this and… and just ask him to stop, how can we do any less?//_

The Giant had turned his full focus on Bumblebee, torso swiveling, one ground-shaking step planting his massive weight more firmly over the semi-molten plain. Nearby mecha flattened themselves even more, or froze where they stood, cutting power to everything but critical systems in order to blend into the ruins around them. The Giant lumbered another great stride forward, sensors sweeping the field with a prickle every mech there could feel. Bumblebee steeled his backstruts and lifted his helm, watching the crackling mouth of the Giant’s serpentine sentry gun, the glow of his huge central cannon.

 _//--wait. Wait!//_ Wheeljack broke into the commline, his glyphs laden with priority modifiers. _//You said -- Hogarth … just *asked* the Giant to stop? And he did? How?//_

 _//I don’t know--and neither did Hogarth. All he said is that he told the Giant that he could choose whether or not he wanted to kill--and he chose not to hurt Hogarth.//_ Bumblebee’s glyphs resonated with _confusion/love/desperation._ _//I have to try--//_

 _//That doesn’t make sense.//_ Ratchet protested. _//He CAN’T choose--there are no higher functions remaining to override the hack! All that’s left is instinct and basic tactical--//_

 _//No higher functions, Ratch--but what about core coding?//_ Wheeljack interrupted excitedly, glyphs half-jumbled over each other in his excitement. _//All these vorns, the slavers put him on worlds where he was alien, where everything there saw him as nothing but a threat. But the one time he lands on Earth, and an organic creature manages to become his friend--he doesn’t kill it. Why?//_

The force-dome that had once protected the Giant’s helm was gone, but that only served to make the red pinpricks of his huge optics seem more threatening. They zeroed in on one potential target after another, Autobot and Decepticon and crumpled remains of slaver ships alike. But it appeared that the Giant hadn’t yet decided upon a threat, or perhaps was still clinging to a bare measure of control… for the moment. Bumblebee stood his ground.

_//Core coding--emotional subroutines? Possibly. You think they’re subverting--//_

_//I think the Giant has had millennia to reroute around the damage. Given his self-repair abilities, even if he can’t think--we know he can still feel pain, feel rage. Why didn’t I think of this before? He can FEEL, Ratchet! And if he can feel rage, then he can feel--//_

_//Love.//_ Ratchet’s glyphs glowed with a dawning hope.

 _//Bumblebee!//_ Wheeljack barked. _//The Giant won’t be able to recognize who you are--his higher functions are still offline. But there’s a chance he might still remember you as something he doesn’t want to kill! Someone he-//_

 _//-wants to protect. Got it, Wheeljack. Hound!//_ Bumblebee’s remaining optic glowed, even as the pitch of the Giant’s armgun changed, whining upwards. _//Hound, I need you!//_ The tacnet said Hound wasn’t far in the jumbled field of debris, though still half-buried.

_//Bumblebee, what--//_

_//Your holoprojection! Can you cast a projection of my field, like you did before with the Giant? Reinforce it, put it in his color-language? Maybe an image of Hughes as well?//_

_//I... can do you even one better than that. Just … a nano ...//_ Several hundred yards away, Hound pushed upward, heaving a piece of hull off of his legs. The green mech was just as soot-smeared and damaged as Bumblebee, but his holoprojector was still functional, if a bit battered around the edges.

Hound was as good as his word. Bumblebee could see the hologram build up around him, all color and light and no barrier against the kind of massive cannon blasts he’d seen the Giant unleash. It was beautiful--and no protection at all against that leveled armgun, longer than his entire body, the rifled mouth crawling with plasma charge. As the projection rose up around him, he forced himself to look past the menacing guns, shoving down his fear. Somewhere, past all those weapons and that terrible rage, was the mech he’d played with and patrolled with--who loved flaky copper oxide sticks, who was fascinated each and every time his new friends transformed, and who was always, always so very gentle with anything smaller than himself.

Each block of light, each pixeled nuance, formed out of the air, slotting into place around him, reflecting and magnifying Bumblebee’s own field, expanding it until it seemed to shine like a beacon to any mech who cared to look. Bumblebee shuttered his functioning optic, cutting off any chance to see if the killing strike was coming. Instead, he held in his processors all the colors the Giant had told them symbolized friendship, companionship, family. The bright yellows, the dancing reds, the steady thrum of blue like a thread as fragile as hope and yet strong enough to bind spark to spark. Each gentle color he released to his field, spinning it out, letting the warmth and closeness suffuse him.

It felt like the most difficult thing he had ever done, finding peace in this blasted wasteland of a battlefield. Harder than fighting, harder than watching friends extinguish; it went against his very core coding. Every circuit of him screamed to escape, to fall back to his lines and start chambering rounds. He couldn’t even tell if the Giant had registered any of this, or if he was too deeply within his battle-madness to even see a single small mech. “Giant,” he called. “I won’t hurt you. No matter what. I’m your friend.” Glyphs might not register, but he sent images of Hogarth, of the elderly human’s voice, his trust as he sat in the palm of an enormous hand and smiled up at the Giant. Images of the hatchlings, who had claimed the Giant as their own, and with them, human babies, human embraces, every image he could find of love and protection.

His optic might be offline, but tertiary sensor suites told Bumblebee the barrel of the Giant’s armgun hadn’t moved. The big mech still had target lock on him. There had to be something missing … something Hughes had said, or done, that allowed the Giant to break his conditioning. But Bumblebee didn’t know what that might have been--and with the fallout over the battlefield, even Blaster wouldn’t be able to get through in time to Cheyenne Mountain to ask. Bumblebee didn’t want to fail his friend … but he didn’t want to hurt the Giant either.

Suddenly, he felt very calm. If he couldn’t fight, then he wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t leave the Giant behind. “It’s okay, Giant,” he called, taking a step forward, a sudden peace washing through his field. “I won’t fight you, and I won’t leave you. No matter what happens, it’s not your fault. You were never meant for this--not like I am. It’s okay.”

The Giant stood, unmoving, for long, endless moments. Bumblebee scrambled for more words that he could say, more colors he could throw into his field--and then he felt a change. The prickling awareness of being in the crosshairs of a target-lock faded. Cautiously, he brought his functioning optic online.

The Giant tilted his helm downward, optics white once more. His jaw lifted into a smile. “... Bumble-bee.”

“Giant,” Bumblebee said, his field collapsing into _joy/relief._ “You’re back!”

Slowly, the Giant knelt, obviously compensating for his missing arm, as well as the other damage he had taken. His weapons folded away before he finished the movement, until not the barrel of an armgun, but blunt, soot-smeared fingers reached out, then hesitated, as if afraid to touch. “Bumble-bee hurt,” the Giant rumbled, apparently oblivious--at least for the moment--to the devastation around him.

“Yeah, we’re both a little dented up, aren’t we?” Bumblebee replied, in what probably qualified as the understatement of the vorn, resetting his vocalizer twice as first his hardware failed, and then when human-style laughter kept trying to bubble up. He stumbled a half-step forward, hands leaving char-streaks on the smooth metal of one enormous finger.

“Oth-er friends… hurt?” the Giant said, starting to look around, which was the last thing Bumblebee wanted. There were too many trigger-happy mecha everywhere, too many drones still fleeing overhelm, and far too much stray fire from the Seekers. If the Giant got raked by a inadvertent volley of micromissiles… there was no telling what could happen. In this, Wheeljack and Ratchet were of one processor.

 _//I need both of you back inside the mountain,//_ Ratchet snapped over the tacnet distractedly, even as overtones of _worry/protectiveness_ leaked through--a badly damaged Prime and nearby Decepticons did not a happy medic make.

Bumblebee caught the comm. “We’re rescuing them now, you don’t need to worry,” he assured the Giant. “Someone needs to look over the hatchlings in the meanwhile, and Ratchet’s going to need your help. Can you take me to the embassy?”

The Giant studied Bumblebee. “O-kay,” he finally rumbled. Reaching outward, he gently closed his fingers around Bumblebee’s torn and dented plating, lifting the smaller mech as he stood.

The nearby Decepticons watched with commingled awe and relief as what had, just a moment ago, been a raging battle drone now picked up the battered Autobot with great care. Ignoring them completely, the wardrone began lumbering away, over the ruined invaders. _//It’s retreating; are we supposed ta--//_

 _//Negative.//_ This time, the reply came not from Bombshell, but rather from the descending Recyclon battle ships. _//Objective: search and destroy remaining forces. Ground troops, prepare to board.//_

Insecticon mandibles clattered in anticipation. Swarming through alien ships, clearing them of any remaining resistance -- now that was an assignment they liked. _//We hear and obey!//_

 

*********

 

“We’re more than a little busy right now, you slaggers, so you can fragging well put your guns away. Stand DOWN, Sunstreaker!” Ratchet snarled, alternately jabbing his little plasma torch at an overeager Decepticon from among the forces now surrounding them--though they didn’t seem to be too sure whether they were supposed to be hauling the Autobots off as prisoners of war or standing guard--and his own overeager frontliner.

 _//Springer and I can take point and punch us free, Optimus,//_ Sunstreaker turned to a higher authority. _//We need to regroup. The minute the battle clears up, *he’s* going to be here, and you’re not in any shape to--//_

“No, Sunstreaker,” came Optimus’ unexpected reply. “I will stay.” Blue optics turned, looking towards the advancing form of the Giant, and the ash-choked sky behind him. “The Giant, the humans, Autobots and Decepticons all have risked everything this day; I will do no less. And I believe … I wish to see what Megatron will do.”

_//That’s glitched, Optimus! We can’t-//_

_//They’re Decepticons! You can’t trust--//_

_//Megatron knows we’ve been knocked down. He’s gonna tear out ALL our sparks--//_

The tacnet forwarded a storm of protests and argument, almost every Autobot still online adamant against the hazards of Optimus’ chosen course of action. They might -- might -- have a chance. If they used the ongoing battle as cover, they could pull in their scattered airframes and shuttles, rescue the hatchlings and whomever they could, and retreat to a more defensible position. Megatron would be too busy dealing with Starscream and the captured war vessels to complete the job started on the humans -- at least, not for a little while. The Autobots needed time, just enough time to --

Optimus stood in the eye of that hurricane, his plating blackened, his frame bare of his bulky flight tech. In its place, he wore a kind of dignity, standing silent sentry as ash clouds billowed and brightened with flashes, as molten metal fell like rain, as all the world seemed to burn around him.

Ratchet cast him a sidelong glance. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

The Prime looked to him, optics glowing. “No.”

Ratchet ex-vented an exasperated sigh. Then he got back to his work, doing what he could to patch the Prime’s tensors back together.

He didn’t have long. The constant background roar of battle began to change, the thunder a little more distant. Then came the distinctive growl of a triplechanger’s flight engines, the clouds of ash and fire and radiation parted as if cut by a blade, and between them, Megatron emerged.

In his wake trailed devastation. Cinders and flame wreathed his wingtips, laurels befitting a true lord of war. Megatron must have used his own reinforced and armored frame as a battering ram during the battle, for the remains of luckless drones still clung to his plating, molten slag and burning crystalline flesh disintegrating in a shower of sparks behind him. He came down like a meteor, dumping speed only at the last possible moment. He transformed almost too fast for optics to follow; his pedes cratered the debris as he came to earth.

Scarlet optics surveyed the scene: the surrounding Decepticons, who had turned more predatory, waiting for Megatron’s word to advance. Ratchet, determinedly ignoring Megatron’s arrival in favor of his repairs. Sunstreaker and Springer, both snarling in desperate defiance, weapons at the ready as they flanked Optimus on either side. And Optimus himself, upright only through a combination of Ratchet’s skills and willpower, who nonetheless met that burning gaze with equanimity.

“Optimus.”

“Megatron,” Optimus replied, as if they were meeting in a council chamber rather than an irradiated battlefield, surrounded by the dead. “Your arrival was most timely. However, given that your lieutenants are in no further danger, and in light of our agreement, I feel I must ask--what are your intentions?”

“Ah yes, our agreement,” Megatron growled, _battle fury/aggression_ resonant through his massive dyad field. “That pathetic scrap of a treaty, meant to shelter your little band of insurgents and the organics you hold so dear. Tell me, Prime. How much do you value carbon-based life now?” Megatron’s faceplates shifted into a darkly sardonic smile, sharp dentae flashing. “It seems we are not the only destroyers of worlds. Shall I have one of the Siggrath brought to us? I need only close my fist to crush it before your optics--but I wonder if, even now, you would sacrifice yourself to protect them.”

“I do not believe that further destruction is what you truly want, Megatron, nor the most judicious course of action,” Optimus replied. He stiffened a little as neural connections were expertly patched, but showed no other signs of pain as damaged systems continued to come online. His optics were sharp as sapphires against soot-smeared faceplates. “Nevertheless, I would ask that you deal with your spoils elsewhere.”

Silence, save for the crackling of metalfires around them. And then Megatron laughed, a grating sound like deep metal giving way, a landslide down slopes of steel. “So sayeth the great Optimus Prime, champion of freedom, defender of the weak,” Megatron sneered, a taloned hand slicing through the air in a scornful gesture. Those talons were no longer thin and hooked digits for the easy impalement of soft-bodied organics, but rather solidly jointed blades, well-adapted to close-quarters combat against an equally-armored opponent. And yet, for all the violence that motion promised, the great warframe had for a moment sounded almost… surprised.

“These Siggrath chose their actions freely--and countless others have suffered as a result. Freedom from consequences, I have learned, is no freedom at all.” Optimus’ gaze never wavered, but he allowed regret to flicker through his field. “Not for organics -- nor for ourselves.”

Megatron gave a rumbling snort. “Pretty words, Optimus. But I doubt they will save you from the harvest you have wrought. Your Autobots are broken, your humans crippled. They both survive by my will alone.”

Optimus shook his helm, just slightly, but his voice was even. “And you have my gratitude -- for my Autobots, the humans, and for the hatchlings.” Panic crackled over the tacnet; Starscream, most likely, struggling to simultaneously free himself of Prowl and command his trine. “I am fully prepared to disregard this breach of our agreement, given the circumstances of your arrival -- as long as your forces do no further harm.”

“Gratitude, Prime?” This time, there was nothing of surprise or amusement in the warlord’s dismissive laugh. “Oh yes, that ‘gift’ you distribute so freely, with all its great weight of useless sentiment. I find, after all these cycles, that it is a prize I can do without.” Megatron’s scarlet gaze swept over his waiting Decepticons, and the battered Autobots beyond them as they struggled over the rubble to rejoin their Prime. “In its stead, however, I may be... _persuaded_... to accept your unconditional surrender.”

Autobots across the battlefield flinched. ‘Surrender’ was at best a poor translation for a glyph that yoked enslavement to thralldom, subjugation in every modifier. Optimus tilted his helm back, watching the smoke billow across the sky as he took a moment to examine his disappointment, his uncertainty, to give them each the attention they deserved. Then, quietly, he folded them away, choosing to dwell in the peace between.

The combined frames of Starscream and Prowl were landing in a flurry of doorwings and tailfins, each striving for control of both the tacnet and their conjoined selves.

“An interesting proposition,” Optimus said quietly. Humidity was gathering in the air now, cooler breezes drawn in from miles away by the convection, the sheer heat of this battlefield. Clumping flakes of ash eddied over every mech on the ground. “Though it does not seem like you, to scavenge the battlefield leavings of another.”

Megatron held his mass low on broadened pedes, all the better to drive home the crushing blows he favored. Downed drones splintered under his weight as he stalked forward. “Do not test my patience, Prime. For you will find it most grievously lacking.”

“As you wish.” Optimus pressed a hand down, easing Ratchet back and away, keeping the medic behind him as he moved to meet the dark mirror of his spark. His joints crackled with unchained charge, tensors clicking, and it seemed as if will alone kept him upright. Optimus stood unflinching, even as battle-tempered talons reached for him. “Let us then speak of why you are truly here. For you see, I know why Starscream remains your unchallenged second.”

Those daggered points hung midair. Megatron’s crimson optics narrowed, more sintering than all the fires around them. “Starscream has his uses, and his insolence amuses me. Do not mistake my indulgence for--”

Prowl and Starscream were on the ground, now, a tangled combination of Seeker and Praxian, and the tacnet ran thick with conflicting orders.

_//Skywarp, get them out of that damned--//_

_//halt, Starscream! Call your trine back. We shared the same frame; of course I know what you--//_

_//I--//_

_//there’s not enough -- frag me they’ve got some kind of ultramagnetic warp interference--//_

Optimus shook his helm, finally letting the sadness, his weariness echo through his field. “No. And no, you do not keep him for the hatchlings either, Megatron. Not these hatchlings, at least.” He studied that snarling visage, the heavy faceplates it seemed he’d known since the first kindling of his spark. “You were always playing a much longer game. But you never made the final move.”

Megatron sneered. “You--”

“I understand now.” Optimus straightened his backstruts with care, plating as dark as late autumn leaves under a burning sky. “A creator. No matter how mad, a creator still, capable of generating new sparks. A new generation for Cybertron -- and a new dyad.” The weight of Optimus’ field seemed to hold everything, all the horrors of a hundred million years of bitter war, all the death, all the sacrifice, so much pain. Too much to have ever fully been given shape by the hubris of only one mech. Soot and embers fell around them like hellfire rain, ash clouds whipped to torment by the indrawn wind. “That is why you’ve kept him safe for all these cycles.”

Megatron’s talons clenched in a bladed fist. “You have the temerity to even _imagine_ \--”

“A new Prime… a new Protector. A chance for our kind to reclaim everything we two have squandered. Everything we might have been.” Optimus studied his counterpart’s faceplates, searching for something... that even he could not have named, and might not know, even were it there to be found. “I understand now, Megatron. And you will have my cooperation.”

Megatron’s great frame had stilled--a poised tension in every line. His plating was more black than silver now, as drifting char began to adhere to plating. “Optimus, you pathetic, soft-helmed fool. Do you honestly think that after so many vorn, after all the battles I have won, all the sparks I have extinguished to claim my prize, that I would just give it away? Hand over Cybertron to a pair of pathetic, mewling, *sparklings*?” Megatron snorted, vents pluming irradiated ash.

Once, Optimus had thought himself able to read every nuance of his brother’s emotion. A hundred million years of war had changed that, and yet… Megatron's field was a roiling aura, fire-storm fury and raging anger interlacing in lancing spikes. It was almost enough to drown out the _anguish/despair/defeat_ that burned like acid underneath. So familiar. Was this sorrow Megatron’s, or merely a reflection of Optimus’ own?

But in the end, perhaps it did not truly matter. What was faith anyway, but that terrible first step, bare and trusting, into the unknown?

“I do. For you know as well as I that this--” Optimus spoke calmly, his gesture encompassing the battlefield, the warriors around them, death upon death… the terrible long slide towards oblivion. “--cannot go on forever. I think, now, that you knew it from the beginning. It explains so much.” All those times Megatron demanded the matrix, all those times Senate and counselors told Optimus that his counterpart was mad, that the relic would be useless in his hands. One chance, one hope for the continuation of their race… and Megatron had never been able to strike that final blow, to tear it from his spark. “And I agree, I am a fool--if only because it took me this long to see the truth.”

“You see what you want to see--you always have,” Megatron snarled. He lunged, massive frame uncoiling in a whiplash of violence as he was suddenly face to face with Optimus, a set of talons hooked into the edge of a damaged chestplate to jerk the other mech painfully closer. “Look at this! All of it! Do you think Cybertron looks any better? Do you think that a few hatchlings will set any of this to rights?”

Talons dug deep, and already-damaged plating *crunched*, crumpling inevitably under the vise-like grip as Megatron snarled. “Your truth is nothing more than the rationalizations of a mech who cannot face the fact that he has failed at every turn!”

Ratchet tried to lunge forward, only to be stopped by Optimus’ own arm. Springer and Sunstreaker’s engines revved in throaty growls of fury as a flurry of target-locks cascaded through the tacnet, from Autobot to Decepticon and back again--

\--and then something pulsed across the edge of Optimus' field, so close it felt like it originated in the handspan between them, tangling Optimus' overtaxed sensors with a frisson of unexpected energy. Megatron let go, stumbling backwards. Talons lifted to his chestplates. “What--what is this?” Crimson optics narrowed. “What have you done to me, Prime!?”

“Megatron, I--I don’t understand.” Optimus staggered, unbalanced by his sudden release, then stepped forward, reaching. “I did not--”

“Stay back!” Megatron snarled, talons lashing out. Blunted digits met gunmetal claws--and both of them locked down upon each other in spasm as current sizzled through both frames. Optimus was the first to collapse, pedes folding under him, his damaged frame unable to take the backlash of energies -- he would have fallen to his kneeplates, but for Megatron’s reflexive grasp. And the power kept *building*, charges arcing underneath Optimus’ plating, white-hot, next to his spark, as if something was … growing. Pressing its way outward. Pulsing, with reverberations that grew stronger with every beat, thudding through his plating, his very struts, shockwaves rippling the air, sending Ratchet stumbling backwards.

Through the haze of his own pain, Optimus could see that Megatron fared little better--the warlord’s faceplates were frozen in a mask of agony, deadly talons clawing at his own silver chestplates. With a hissing snarl, Megatron soon followed Optimus’ descent--dropping to one knee, then two with a metal-shattering crash as their legs gave way. “This is--I have felt this before! You--”

The heavy *boom* of the Giant’s footsteps was like thunder in the midst of a cataclysm, impossible to distinguish from the fire and the pain, the reverberation of energies that seemed to shake the foundations of the earth itself. But despite the shouts across the tacnet to keep him clear, the big mech could not be stopped, his approach slow and reverential.

“Wait,” he rumbled, stopping a respectful distance away. “Watch.” He knelt, placing Bumblebee gently among the mecha ringing the Prime and Protector, the expanding aura of energies that convulsed them both. Enrapt, his white optics brilliantly alight, the massive mech brought his hand to steady Ratchet as the medic reeled back from the shockwaves. A low, resonant thrum began to build in his huge frame. “Moun-tain comes.”


	32. Chapter 32

_//What mountain!? Giant, what the frag--//_

But the rising energy was subsuming the tacnet now, as well, burning it out, soaking every last bit of bandwidth into that coruscating dome of energy. Each pulse throbbed farther, sweeping in like the tide, washing everything inevitably into the deep.

Megatron and Optimus were almost invisible in the midst of that vortex, reduced to ragged shadows within the light. Between them, two brilliant slivers had pulled themselves free to hang in the air, burning like the heart of a star, too painful to look at directly. Felt more than seen, the twinned shards strobed, pulsing as they neared each other. Sheets of physical light danced through the ash, splitting and merging, one moment fractalline, the next pure disorder. They robed the two mecha at the epicentre like nacre, petals unfolding from the air itself. Strobing flares lanced in a column skyward, shining through every obstacle. Every color was in that light, all the wavelengths, all the amplitudes, and all the endless singing spaces in between.

A final, blinding flash pulsed through the dust and cinders like they didn’t exist, accompanied by a shockwave that sent mecha flying like leaves. The light ran deeper than anything physical -- a power that made confetti of all the laws of physics and cavorted through the scintillating rain. Mecha collapsed where they’d been flung, flat onto aching chestplates or their knees. Mercury and hassium, cybertronium and ytterbium, protometal in all its strangelets and strings … everything awakened to that light, aligning like iron filings in the midst of a billion cross-laced magnetic fields. Sparks flared in their casings, reaching --

\--and the light vanished. For an instant, blinking up with stunned optics, plating crawling with a sharply uncomfortable prickle-ache, Bumblebee thought that something had occluded it. A ship? But the edges were too sharp, and also -- wait, optics? Both his primaries were functional; he had binocular vision again.

Then the shape swam into focus. It was squared off and immense, bigger than a Cybertronian shuttle, covered in golden-glowing ancient glyphs, and … Bumblebee had seen it before. Had *carried* it before.

The Allspark sat upon the battlefield, an immense cube once more, and sang to itself.

“.... what?” his own voice sounded strange in the heavy air. The uneasy prickling against his plating, Bumblebee suddenly realized, was the pressure of the Allspark’s immense field. His wounds … were gone, his plating still covered in soot, but repaired, as if it had never been damaged. He stretched out his arms, flexing blunted digits, marveling at the lack of damage reports, how the buried ache of priority alerts had disappeared. He felt … good. Whole. And--

“Giant!” The Allspark was unpredictable at best, everyone knew that, especially without a Well to contain and control its energies. Bumblebee chanced pushing himself up on one elbow, searching for the big mech, and found him crouched under the vast, sloped wall of the cube, reaching out reverently to not-quite-touch. The big mech rumbled with his own low, answering croon.

“Moun-tain here.” The Giant’s domed helm turned, those simple faceplates shifting into a smile. Just like Bumblebee, he was whole once more, with two arms and no sign of battle damage except for cinders and dirt. “Bumble-bee hears?” The Giant tilted his helm, listening. “Hears baby-song?”

Balanced impossibly on one point, tip just touching the sand, the Allspark hummed over them all. The corpses and debris in its shadow were gone, like they’d been melted away in a huge irregular vale .... or consumed. The Giant’s massive chassis had partly shielded the mecha around Bumblebee, but even he had been forced back, to judge by the deep scrapes in the sand left by his pedes. If The Giant had been standing upright, the cube would still have towered over him -- no telling by how much, given Bumblebee’s current perspective.

His current perspective … from underneath the Allspark. _Underneath._ _The_. _Allspark._

“Oh Primus,” whispered a medium-weight, bright green Decepticon grounder, fingers clutching into the sandy soil and optics spiraled as wide as they could go.

Bumblebee had managed to contain the cube once before, very carefully, using the specialized equipment he’d been issued for that purpose. All the while, he’d been painfully aware that, despite his preparation, any physical or electromagnetic disturbance could be enough to activate the relic. He wasn’t carrying that equipment now. And even if he had been…

...the Allspark didn’t look like it was terribly interested in being contained at the moment.

“All right,” Bumblebee whispered, slowly drawing up one knee. When that didn’t result in his frame being zapped into a thousand separate and autonomous micro-mecha, he cautiously sat up, shivering at the prickle-ache over every square inch of his plating. “No comms, no panic, keep your fields close and your helms down. We’re all going to move back together. Giant--”

The Giant seemed disinclined to move, giving them a little four-fingered wave before settling down more comfortably, humming. But the Decepticons around Bumblebee, possessed of at least rudimentary self-preservation skills and lacking any better orders, obeyed, crawling backwards over the sand, clambering as quietly as possible up the debris that formed the rim of the Allspark’s shallow crater. There was more movement now around that ragged edge -- mecha easing themselves to a safer distance, keeping their commingled terror and awe clamped close.

A mound of silver plating, there beneath the vast cube’s shadow, did not move. But crimson optics flickered on.

Megatron.

The shockwave had tossed him and Optimus both backwards as if they were no more than sparklings, leaving them in a tumbled sprawl against the edge of the clearing. The warlord’s talons were still clenched in a death grip on the Prime’s forearm, hard enough to dent metal. He’d fallen across Optimus’ frame, and a prickling fire crawled his back plating. The warlord turned his heavy helm slightly, getting a better visual image of... a huge wall? Intricate carvings covered its surface, densely layered, one upon another. Had something attacked them? Then archived memory caught up to what he was seeing and he froze, recognition dawning. _The Allspark._

It loomed over them both, fully restored to its original size, an immense and near-palpable threat. Megatron’s free hand splayed over his own chestplates, struck by a sense-memory: the vivid agony of being killed--being *cored* and burned through to his very spark by the unleashed power of the cube. That final, bitter betrayal, when Optimus had chosen to use the Allspark to extinguish Megatron’s very spark, rather than allow him to possess its power.

But in so doing, It had been destroyed. Reduced down to nothing but a few splintered shards. How could it be here now? Megatron began to lever himself upward. There was no time to speculate--the Allspark needed to be contained, guarded. He had to take possession of it, get it to Cybertron. “Decepticons--”

Blunted digits curled around the sharp-pointed blades of his shoulder guard. “Hold, Megatron,” Optimus said quietly, clasping him in place with impossible strength, and Megatron belatedly realized he that Optimus’ wounds were no longer in evidence--that they both were whole, their frames undamaged. “Brother-” Megatron stilled at that designation- “-do not be rash. There is no containment for the Allspark here.” There was a careful stillness to those words, and a strained quality underneath them. “I am trying … to keep it pacified, but if we do battle here -- the Allspark will react, and there is no telling whether any of us would survive. Not and remain as we are.”

Megatron snarled. “So you want me to leave the Allspark to you instead, dear _brother_? Especially now that you have proven most adroitly what a weapon it is?” On more than one level. Every mech ever sparked knew that the Allspark was both the first and the most powerful wellspring of life on Cybertron … and none of them, even now, could explain how or why it created that life. But under the influence of the Primes, the Allspark could and had been used to expand the armies, to fuel vast wars, to provide an endless source of reinforcements for the Senate and their lackeys.

Optimus bowed his helm, blue optics dimming. Other mecha had advised him, yes, and circumstances had often forced his hand. But the choice to use the relic as a weapon, placing this great symbol of hope and continuance in the service of destruction had, ultimately, always been his. “I have not forgotten my promise, Megatron. I will assist you in forging a future for the remnants of our race.” He shook his helm, just a little, at the distrust painted plainly in Megatron’s field. “The Allspark shall never be turned against you again -- neither to destroy, nor to create mecha to be arrayed against you in battle. This I vow, no matter what fate lies ahead of us, for so long as my spark still spins.”

Under other circumstances, Megatron would at least have demanded further concessions, or some proof against betrayal. In this kind of close-quarters combat, with the Prime already pinned, Megatron had the decided advantage. But the ebb and surge of the Allspark’s power beat against his plating, crawling between transformation seams, as if waiting for an opening. Megatron growled in aggravation--quietly, lest he attract the Allspark’s attention. “…these terms are acceptable. For now.”

“Then I suggest we retreat. Carefully,” came the prompt reply, edged with a degree of wryness. “There are many things we must decide upon … and I believe we would be best served by doing so from a safe distance.”

 

**********

 

“As near as we can tell, it’s like you’re both fresh off the assembly line. Even the wear on your joints is gone.” Hook stood back, tools folding away, and glanced aside to where Ratchet was doing the same. He seemed obliquely satisfied by the medic’s confirming nod.

“But we don’t know where the energy for this manifestation came from, or why the Allspark chose to show itself only now,” Ratchet added -- Perceptor and Wheeljack were already tossing ideas back and forth on that one. He frowned over the scans of Optimus’ repair diagnostics, following the densely-nested code trees. Everything seemed fully normal… yet medical texts were replete with case studies of mecha who had approached the Allspark too closely. And both Optimus and Megatron had probably been, for a moment, close enough to _touch_ the relic.

“Incorporated into Lord Megatron’s frame, no doubt, when--” Hook started loftily, only to snap his vocalizer off at some unheard comm. He gave a jerky little bow before backing away, turning to where other Decepticons were still sorting the injured from the rubble. The Allspark’s energies had miraculously repaired every mech for almost a filum in every direction -- but a number of mecha had been outside that radius, or had been unable to dig themselves free of the debris even after they had been made whole.

 _//Please return to assisting the wounded, and ensuring that the embassy doors are cleared, Ratchet,//_ Optimus commed, briefly resting a hand in thanks on Ratchet’s pauldron. _//I fear that Starscream will glitch if kept from the hatchlings much longer.//_

Ratchet hesitated. _//Doubt any glitch could leave him worse off,//_ he grumped. _//I don’t like leaving you alone in the middle of this, Optimus. He’s broken every cease fire you’ve ever negotiated.//_

 _//I know, old friend.//_ Optimus smiled a little, field warm despite the prickling snap of his counterpart’s aura. _//But I believe we both can see that circumstances have… changed. Once Jazz or Prowl have been cleared and if they can be spared, you may send them. But for now, the damaged require your attentions far more than I.//_

Optimus turned back to his ancient enemy’s fulminating crimson glare. Sunset was streaking the field of battle in muted reds through the dust and fog that still hung in the air, while the huge Siggrath battleships cast irregular shadows over the tattered desert landscape. The largest vessel, swarmed by Decepticons, was settling slowly on the plain beyond the edge of the battlefield -- Soundwave’s doing, no doubt. Judging by the pair of lithe, subtle watchers that carved unobtrusively through the dust above, it would not be long before the spymaster disembarked.

How many battlefields had he and Megatron met upon? How many times had they faced each other only behind crossed blades? So often, one or the other of them had gained the upper hand, only to somehow fail to deliver the final extinguishing blow, losing the moment to delay, elaborate plans, distraction or counterattack. A few times might have been coincidence, luck, but there had been so many -- Optimus did not understand how he had never seen it before.

All the while and of the two of them, Optimus was keenly aware, only Megatron had truly had a plan for what would come after, when one of them lay graying.

And of the two of them, only Optimus had been, at long last, willing to end his brother. Not directly perhaps, but by an organic’s hand, using the relic that now, somehow, sang to itself just a few filum away.

“I would not see us continue as we have,” Optimus said quietly, gauging the warlord’s stance, the steady, tightly-wound prickle of his field. “Between the two of us, we have broken our people, and it is by chance alone that anything remains for us to salvage. The Allspark has returned to us--shall we take this chance, and reforge our peace?”

“Your mawkish sentimentality knows no end.” Megatron studied the Prime, his talons slowly flexing, as if remembering the feel of armor-plate tearing beneath. “And I care nothing for your words. Know this: the Allspark will not remain here, adrift on this mudball and in your power. It belongs on Cybertron.”

 __“I agree,”__ Optimus said quietly. A Prime’s influence over the relic only went so far. Beachcomber, as a priest and geologist, might have served amongst the Allspark’s attendants for a time. If so, he would know at least some of the proper rites and rituals of the Allspark, the waveforms that had once been built into the very girders of the relic’s factory-temple. And the Giant’s strange, primitive harmonies seemed to have a certain calming effect.

But with only three mecha capable of attending to it… even in the absence of provocation, sooner or later the Allspark would enter one of its cycles of high activity. Once it did, the debris layered across this battlefield would provide raw materials aplenty, and no mech could say what might be born of them. Whatever was created, it would very likely be lethal in a world full of soft, carbon-based life. “After all, Megatron, Earth does not have the ability to produce proper frames for sparking. But tell me this: does Cybertron?”

Megatron was far too old, too experienced a commander, to let his weight shift or armor flatten with discomfort. “You dare to measure the risk of a few missparkings against the Allspark again falling into your pet organics’ tinkering paws?” He blew a scornful vent. “You did not see what they did with it. How they *toyed* with its power. The cube shall return with me.”

Optimus shook his helm. “The Allspark will be safe from the humans. They cannot move it, nor can they withstand radiation such as this. Until we can repair what the Siggrath have done to this world, and to the embassy, this location is the safest that Earth can offer. Nevertheless, I do not propose to leave the Allspark unguarded.” He paused, turning over his words with care. “Megatron--you can try to take the Allspark by force. You may well even succeed. But I would not see any mech trapped aboard a spaceborne ship with an unsettled, uncontained Allspark. Let us both detail mecha to guard it here on Earth, until adequate facilities can be prepared. Then, in time, we will transport it back to Cybertron, as peaceably and carefully as possible.”

Crimson optics narrowed, gauging Optimus’ resolve. The silence stretched as Megatron considered the offer. “If I were to agree to such a measure... I will require additional concessions. Foremost among them, the plans to the Allspark’s shrine and factories.”

“Done,” Optimus agreed swiftly, immediately packaging a file and offering it. He watched Megatron scowl and forward the packet away for review. “I will do what I can to gather more data, if we possess it. But the last I saw them, the repairs needed to the temples in Iacon were--”

“Not Iacon.” Megatron’s faceplates twisted into a displeased scowl. “I will not suffer that city to gather power to itself again.”

A crunch of rubble, and Jazz’s private warning over the tacnet, heralded the approach of the Decepticon spymaster. Soundwave was walking, making no effort at concealment-- the battlefield, piled with debris, was far too treacherous for any alt short of a tank. Very little reflected in the dark mech’s field, but even still, he seemed… hesitant to come too close, perhaps, or in some manner transfixed by the unfolding discussion, this first hint that a degree of peace might be possible. Either way, there was no indication that the spymaster meant any interference. Optimus sent a quick glyph of negation as Prowl offered reinforcements, and instead turned back to Megatron, inclining his helm. “The structures can be moved to a Well in a neutral territory, if one can be found. But the resources required to do so--”

Megatron snarled, a short, sharp flash of dentae. “I will handle it.”

Optimus considered that, a trace of doubt unavoidably coloring his field. Rebuilding and reseeding the protometal growth matrixes would, alone, be a momentous undertaking. And Optimus could not name a single mech, on either side, who had extensive experience building the kinds of microfabricating plants needed for frames. Perhaps the information could be salvaged from the deep-buried ruins, perhaps enough mecha put to work rebuilding. But whether those things could be done quickly enough…

Soundwave shifted his weight silently.

Megatron’s optics flashed crimson. “If I permit the Allspark to remain here for a time, then Starscream and his clutch will be returned to me, along with the rest of his lackeys, to face judgment.”

For the first time, a tiny but iron-solid flicker of proscription rippled through Optimus’ field. “I have sworn to protect the hatchlings. I cannot hand them over to you.” His voice gentled slightly, turning his next words into an appeal. “Starscream left in order to fulfill his core coding, to create new life, and the others to protect it. Given the outcome, surely you can suspend their punishment?”

“I will not allow my command to be undermined by Starscream’s obsessions,” Megatron growled. “Nor will I allow you to take possession of both the Allspark and my traitorous lieutenant. Do you think I would leave the future of our species solely under your feeble guard? Starscream comes with me.”

Engines began to growl in the background as both factions picked up on Megatron’s anger and Optimus’ resolve. More than a few mecha cast wary looks to the Allspark, still far to close to any conflict for anyone's comfort.

“Megatron …” Optimus vented a sigh, in a rare display of exasperation. “I do not wish Starscream to remain on Earth any more than you do. If nothing else, for the humans’ sake, for if he remains, he is sure to continue to enforce his dominion over them. But the hatchlings are still newly sparked and fragile. They cannot be moved off planet, and still require caretakers.”

“They are warframes. Most of them will survive the transit to Cybertron. As to those that do not,” Megatron’s plating rippled in a shrug. “Starscream will always make more. His value to the Decepticons far outweighs their lives.”

Blue optics narrowed, and the first threads of anger tinted Optimus’ field. “You do not mean that. Their lives-”

“-will not make a difference, Prime,” Megatron shot back. “You may speak of hope and symbolism all you wish, but I deal with reality. Hard choices must be made, and sparks sacrificed to defend those choices. I will not permit you to raise your own contingent of Autobot Seekers, nor will you keep the only creator-mech left to our species!”

Mecha on both sides stirred uneasily, and weapons reports began to flash across the tacnet. Optimus shuttered his optics for a moment. Was this how it ended? The hatchlings had brought a halt to conflict time and again, had catalyzed unprecedented cooperation between the long-warring sides. But now, on the eve of this rare promise of hope...

“I ask only enough time for the hatchlings to make the journey in safety, Megatron,” Optimus said, striving for calm. “Surely alternatives can be found to their immediate departure. I can offer mecha to assist, or such of the Siggrath ships as can be made mobile--”

“Anything you could offer, Prime, I already possess,” Megatron snarled. “And I will not bargain away my traitorous lieutenant. Make no mistake, he will--”

 _//Go nowhere with you, *Lord* Megatron!//_ Starscream’s derisive comm cut through the heated argument. _//You think I won’t risk hitting the Allspark? I’ll fragging well target it, and both you fraggers can drown your engines in its tide of misbegotten progeny for all I care--//_

_//Still can’t teleport into--//_

_//Starscream--//_ But his trinemates’ comms were swamped by Starscream’ fury. At the embassy’s mostly-buried entrance, where the opening was still too small to admit the bigger flying mecha, Seekers jerked their wings in agitation. Grounders, both Autobots and Starscream’s Decepticons alike, began to lay down their improvised digging implements in favor of nervously folding out claws or readying blades.

For all their battle readiness, no mech was fast enough to stop Starscream.  He lunged, talons hooking cruelly into armor, newly-repaired by the mysterious actions of the Allspark. Twice Prowl’s size and three times his mass, the Seeker dragged the tactician close, clamping down on Prowl’s forearm before the acid pellets could be turned against him. “You’re not the only one who can use what they learned from the merge,” Starscream sneered, dragging Prowl back a few steps. His own null ray jerked between Prowl’s helm, the other grounders, and the Allspark, quietly humming in the distance. “You, keep digging. I am taking my fragging creations! And both of you, Optimus, Megatron: you will not interfere, if you value any of your precious frames!”

“You backstabbing, treacherous--” Kup snarled.

_//Prowl!//_

“You let him go, or I’ll--!”

Autobots and Decepticons both froze, weapons-systems humming ominously. Starscream’s faction started falling back, forming up, weapons wavering between Autobots and Decepticons as they hesitantly moved to defend the Command Trine. Starscream’s Seekers were still damaged, their energon and ammo reserves low; most of them had been too far from the Allspark to be touched by its power. But their engines heated, expending the last of their fuel, ready to take to the air.

Megatron snarled. “Keep your mecha under control,” he snarled at Optimus, moving as if to push past. “I will deal with--”

\-- only to come to a hard halt as Starscream’s weapon swung unerringly towards the Allspark. “Not one step closer, Master,” the Seeker sneered, tensors shaking with charge.

Cliffjumper, Beachcomber, and the rest of the Autobot grounders were divided, a few starting cautiously towards the embassy entrance, others hesitant and held at bay by Starscream, as Thundercracker and Skywarp fell back to cover his wings. Most of the Autobots on Earth were still scattered across the battlefield, as were the newly-arrived Decepticons, but both were now focused upon the embassy, tacnets awakening, waiting for the order from their respective leaders.

Prowl held himself carefully, deceptively still as Starscream dragged him another step back. _//There is a seventy-two percent chance of taking Starscream before he can fire,//_ the tactician grimly reported, even as Ratchet’s engine revved in a rising snarl, while Jazz and Kup closed in on Thundercracker and Skywarp, faceplates set.

Optimus… hesitated, desperation eating at his circuits. He stood close enough to Megatron’s side to hear the pop and grind of the warframe’s dentae as he ground them. A three out of four chance… and failure meant risking almost every Cybertronian in existence. Some might survive the Allspark’s disturbance, but there was no telling what any of them might become. Yet, if he did nothing, Megatron certainly would. Battlemasks and visors glinted across the battlefield, as the Decepticons readied themselves.

Everything hung on this moment, every hope, every shadow of possibility for the future of their kind. And every mech knew it.

 _//Prowl--//_ Optimus started.

 _//Assessment: incorrect.//_ The open comm was distinctive. Flat and devoid of emotional modifiers, it cut through the terrible tension like a sonic blade. _//Starscream, not the only creator remaining.//_

Megatron scowled, not bothering to disguise his anger at the interruption. Optimus blinked. Mecha across the smoking field of rubble jerked in surprise; Starscream looked up, optics wide. “What?” Optimus said.

Despite his Lord’s ire, Soundwave stepped forward, stopping just short of the small cluster of mecha. So close like this, Optimus could detect the faint, subtle tremor in the spymaster’s clenched fists. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw carved slow circles overhead, watching the tableau. “Other creator mecha: still functional.”

 _//Optimus? What’s Soundwave playing at?//_ Jazz sent, keeping the comm narrow-banded and heavily encrypted, even as he edged towards where he could better lunge past Acid Storm’s aggressively outspread wings. Soundwave’s little interjection had thrown everyone off-balance, including Starscream and his faction. But even Megatron looked surprised, which was interesting on a number of levels.

 _//I am not sure,//_ Optimus confessed. _//But if he is telling the truth ...//_

“Soundwave. Explain,” Megatron snapped, half turning to glare at his third-in-command.

“Several creator mecha: safe.” And then Soundwave …. hesitated. He deliberately squared his stance, big sensor panels folded tight against his back, armor held close to his frame. Facing Megatron, he had to reset his vocalizer with a click. “Creator mecha: currently hidden among other refugees.”

Optimus drew a shuddering ventilation. Creator mecha, those ultra-specialized builders of new sparks, fundamentally unsuited for war… some had been rumored to exist among far-flung colonies of neutrals, long before the campaigns that had ended in the disastrous loss of the Allspark to its long space-borne journey. But since then, almost two million years ago, the Autobots had heard nothing, found nothing, no matter how far they searched. Could this even be possible? “Wha -- for how long?”

 _//That’s impossible!//_ Blaster’s comm swamped the flurry of reaction from nearby mecha with its outrage, denial echoing in every jagged modifier. _//He’s lying, Optimus--that scraplet-spawned fragger has killed more mecha--more *symbionts*--than any--//_

 _//That ‘con’s a killer, no doubt. But--Sounders doesn’t do anythin’ without a reason, and he plays a long game,//_ Jazz said, cutting through Blaster’s indignant fury. _//Looks like even Megs didn’t know about this particular gambit. Which makes me wonder if there’s somethin’ to this ...//_

 _//Impossible!//_ Blaster shot back. _//He’s Megatron’s lapdog--he’d never jeopardize his standing to--//_

_This time it was Prowl who broke in, still held in Starscream’s grasp, coolly analytical. //What would Soundwave gain by this? Lying to Megatron about the existence of other creator mecha might momentarily defuse the current standoff, but would not ultimately result in a favorable outcome for either himself or the Decepticon cause.//_

Optimus turned his lambent blue gaze upon the big carrier. “Soundwave--is this true?” he asked, the barest glowing flickers of hope/impossibility threading through his field. “They are safe?”

If being cross-examined by a Prime troubled Soundwave, it didn’t show. “Affirmative. Soundwave: ensured their protection.”

Megatron, however, was not nearly so pleased at this revelation, irritation rapidly shading into fury. Ignoring the narrow-banded speculations sizzling through the air, Megatron turned away from Optimus. Scarlet optics narrowed. “Soundwave. What refugees?”

“Creator-mecha, others, all collected,” Soundwave was very still, his field utterly, carefully blank. “To ensure preservation of Chronicler class.”

Megatron’s talons clenched slowly into a bladed fist. “You have been my right hand in matters of prisoner disposal since the war began. And all this time, you intended to--”

“Negative.” Soundwave’s answer was immediate and emphatic. “Actions taken, always in service of Decepticon cause.”

Above, Laserbeak left his watchful position in the sky, wheeling downward to land upon Soundwave’s hastily upraised arm. Folding his wings with neat tucking motions, the symbiont -- perhaps Megatron’s most prized spy -- fixed his glittering crimson gaze upon the Lord High Protector.

“Lord Megatron, please do not mistake my master’s intentions. Everything Soundwave has done, he has done for us, and for you, and for Cybertron. We are the living memory of Cybertron. When Cybertron rises from its ashes under your rule, you will need memory-keepers, and the knowledge that we carry.” The symbiont’s voice was resonant, echoing with the ancient cadences of the first Golden Age. “They have been hidden, secret and safe, within every far-flung corner of the galaxy, in the secret catacombs of a thousand worlds, in the shadows of tiny, airless moons. They are alive, because Soundwave foresaw the need to preserve their sparks against the future--”

“By safeguarding our enemies,” Megatron snapped. “You weave a fine tale of rationalizations for your master. Starscream himself could do no better.” The Lord Protector ignored his lieutenant’s affronted vocalization. “But tell me, how many Autobot sympathizers have you hidden away, among your precious Chroniclers? How often have you deprived me of needed mecha, in your unsanctioned zeal?”

Soundwave shifted slightly, levelling a visored glance at Optimus, at Prowl and Jazz and the other listening mecha. “Allies, neutrals, assisted Decepticon cause as needed. Autobot intransigence, not allowed to endanger others.”

 _//He’s lying, Optimus! Weaving stories just to buy themselves some time--there’s no way that scheming razorsnake would do anything like that! We already know the fate of prisoners of war left in that mech’s hands -- Primus, we’ve seen it!//_ Blaster’s furious disbelief was incandescent now, his glyphs threatening to swamp the tacnet. _//And even if he’d bothered to try, what he’s saying is impossible. The war was everywhere! Where could he possibly have kept any mecha safe?//_

“You--” Springer started, furious, only to come to a hard halt as Optimus lifted a hand.

Laserbeak bowed his helm respectfully, elegant scarlet and black wingtips folding down to brush Soundwave’s pauldrons. “They are secure, Lord Megatron. Soundwave ensured that they remained wherever the war was not,” he said, answering the intercepted comm, and pinned the Autobots with an unflinching scarlet gaze. “And they shall remain so, until Lord Megatron tells us that the war is over, and that it is time to rebuild all that was destroyed.”

 _//I knew it! All this time you’ve trusted him, like a dent-helmed fool, and Soundwave was betraying the cause from the beginn--//_ Starscream’s sharp comm crackled over the airwaves, open for any to hear.

 _//Silence.//_ Megatron’s reply was a steely whipcrack, a force all its own, steel-heavy with displeasure. Mecha flinched from the force of it, Autobot and Decepticon alike. _//Release the damned Autobot. And be grateful that I have no present need of you, or your chirping brood.//_ Megatron fixed his spymaster with incandescent crimson optics, some unheard comm passing between them.

The cobalt carrier lowered his gaze.

Megatron bared jagged dentae, though he made no move towards his third in command. “As for you, Optimus -- you may keep Starscream and his clutch for a time, for whatever good that does you. He will not be permitted to leave the planet. We will continue our negotiations once I have… certain mecha well in hand.”

Optimus exhaled a slow ventilation. Something in his spark seeming to untwist as, at the collapsed embassy entrance, Starscream released Prowl with an angry shove and stomped instead over to the rubble that kept him from his hatchlings. “Agreed, Megatron,” Optimus said graciously, stepping back as the former Lord High Protector turned to his forces, watching as Soundwave fell in behind Megatron at an imperious gesture.

 _//Optimus?//_ Jazz started.

_//Fragging -- that monster of a mech isn’t going to be able to deliver anything he’s prom--//_

Optimus gently quieted the vibrations that Blaster’s rage sent rippling through the tacnet. _//Autobots. Let us take matters one at a time. During this reprieve, we shall rescue the buried and help Starscream retrieve his hatchlings. Prowl, please determine how best to triage repairs to the humans’ most vital infrastructure. And then -- I believe we all have much to discuss.//_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, we totally did just pull a deus ex machina. Though in our defense, it was one that Steve Jablonsky set up perfectly for us, so it's totally not our fault. 
> 
> For those who might still be wondering: when the Allspark was destroyed in the first movie, two shards were left over (as per Revenge of the Fallen). One was stolen by the Decepticons, and used to resurrect Megatron. The other was juggled around by Sam, until it was used to resurrect Jetfire--who subsequently sacrificed himself to give a certain Prime a certain set of wings. See? It was just too convenient NOT to use ... *^__^*


	33. Chapter 33

Almost a thousand miles away, buried under the protective mass of Cheyenne Mountain, the Autobots’ human allies waited and prayed, watching monitors for any signs of victory amongst all the devastation.

Most of the Air Force top brass had also been evacuated to Cheyenne, and Lennox found himself in the unenviable position of reporting far outside of his chain of command about Autobot capabilities and the strategic implications of the invasion--mostly to three- and four-star generals. Which, given that he knew little more than they did at this point, made said briefings an exercise in frustration for all concerned. With almost its entire active nuclear arsenal expended, there was little more the U.S. could do but continue with search and rescue operations where they could, secure troops and materials against further attacks, and try to coordinate with the rest of the world.

Not that they were having much success on the communications front. Most military-grade satellites had been either destroyed or compromised, and many civilian ones as well. Earth’s communications networks had been decimated, and most joint bases and other posts now relied on landlines and antiquated radio towers in order to maintain some semblance of command and control. More than once Lennox found himself once wondering if this was how the future was going to look. If the world would shrink down, until there was no good knowledge of anything beyond your own country’s borders. Shit, they could hardly get any verifiable information about anything happening outside Colorado. It was as if the breadth of the planet had collapsed down, narrowed, like the shrinking awareness of a dying man -- or a dying civilization.

Then he shrugged away the thought, chugged down his lousy coffee, and went back to work.

When the generals didn’t want him in the room, Lennox and the rest of NEST worked with the refugees. Not to hand out food and water; they had manpower enough for that. He was looking for stories, for information. The cities and bases closest to the Cybertronian embassy had been evacuated -- inasmuch as a city the size of Las Vegas could be with less than forty-eight hours warning -- and the stragglers still coming in were their best chance at intel about the invasion over Yucca Mountain.

Some were inside the base in medical, some in hastily-erected tents and popups outside or in Colorado Springs, so finding people to question wasn’t hard. That didn’t make getting answers any easier, however, especially when interviewing refugees meant suiting up with protective gear. Anyone close enough to Yucca Mountain to have actionable intel had also been exposed to hundreds of rads; everything they owned had to be quarantined. As the day lengthened and flecks of ash began to blow across the continent, the muted click of geiger counters became an eerie soundtrack anyplace outside of the nuclear-hardened base.

That same fallout, still in the atmosphere, meant no human-made technology stood a chance at peering through the murk to follow the battle raging over southern Nevada. All NEST could do was listen to stories told by exhausted, frightened survivors: of how passing ships flipped vehicles over like toys in their wake, endless lines of evacuees along highways ignored in favor of distant Autobot targets. Of driving under shadows that blotted out the sun for thirty miles. Of watching the horizon light up with incandescent, eye-searing flares of light, the sky glowing green and white, their very bones vibrating as the earth below quaked and shook.

Other information--hard data, at least--was harder to come by. Cheyenne might have been one of the best-equipped facilities the U.S. had for a global-scale disaster like this, but some things--a lot of things--had been overlooked in the rush. The Air Force had scavenged what scientific equipment they could from old storerooms or nearby shops; instrumentation no one had realized they needed until now. All the major online geosurvey systems were down, but someone had dug up some seismic instruments from the local high school’s run-down little geology laboratory. The creaky old seismograph registered one titanic explosion after another, shaking the earth with energy swells from thousands of miles away. The geiger counters and other instrumentation left at Nellis had been overloaded in moments, burned out, but bases further out in Nevada and California were still reporting in when they could, sending drones out for recon--and the news was not good. Energetic and radiation spikes had white-coated physicists and NASA scientists hovering over readouts in worried huddles, arguing in hushed tones about the potential long-term damage this battle might cause. Even if the Autobots won… what wasteland would await humanity?

Lennox was no egghead; there wasn’t much he could do about the rest of the planet. But he was worried about the locals, and he expected the brass probably were as well. For now, the surrounding towns were staying calm. But most of them didn’t have large enough fallout shelters to accommodate even their existing population, much less all the new arrivals. When those were overwhelmed… what then?

The biggest swell of all hit a little after six in the evening. Lennox was cooling his heels in a hallway -- he had been left waiting an hour, after being ordered to show up and report to some new brass, not that he had anything new to report -- when the base intercom fritzed. The system was self-contained, buried under a literal mountain of rock. It shouldn’t have registered even a nuclear detonation outside the gates, and yet… it was clearly picking up _something_. Static blurred the continuous loop of recorded warnings and reminders, and then washed the words out entirely, rising to a single piercing tone like a struck tuning fork.

“Shit.” That couldn’t mean anything good. He abandoned the useless briefing and headed towards Operations, half running. He wasn’t the only one. Epps and two other rangers fell in before he was halfway there. “What’s going on?” Lennox asked.

Epps shook his head. “Got me. Something weird--it’s affecting everything. Intercoms, radios--hell, even the medical instrumentation down in the infirmary and people’s fuckin’ hearing aids are picking up that weird interference.”

“That’s not good,” Lennox said grimly. If this signal was affecting devices under a half-mile of rock, it was big. He was trying not to think about the planet-cracking weapons the Autobots had mentioned. If the invaders had launched one of those ….

“Another fuckin’ weapon?” said Greg, scarred face set. A NEST veteran of the battle of Cairo and the Chicago invasion, he was no stranger to unpleasant alien surprises.

“Don’t think so,” Pauline disagreed, her voice a low rasp. She’d joined up shortly before Chicago, and was one of the few survivors of the insertion team. The only female ranger in NEST, she was agile as a peregrine in her wingsuit, and just as lethal on the ground. “It doesn’t seem to be doing anything to us but makin’ noise, anyway.”

They weren’t the only ones to put two and two together. Operations was swarming with personnel, from heads of departments demanding answers all the way down to the half-deafened privates who’d been staffing the radar terminals. Every piece of equipment had been affected, not just the base intercom; every speaker and set of headphones keening that same high, humming tone.

“Whatever it is, it’s powerful,” Epps remarked.

“Yeah. And it’s definitely external,” Lennox frowned as transmissions warbled through alien registers, still intermittently interrupted by the high ringing note, as if the sound were echoing back and forth across the country. “Any word from the other commands?” he asked the nearest specialist.

“None yet, sir,” the harassed communications tech reported. “The landlines are still down, along with radio and satellite transmissions.”

“Well, whatever it is, it hasn’t killed us yet,” Lennox remarked with the fatalistic optimism of a front-line soldier. “No reason for us to be underfoot. Epps, round up the rest of the team and see if you can find us a briefing room. I’ll grab Witwicky and the others--no point in keeping them in the dark, and I’m sure no one here is gonna bother telling ‘em anything. We’ll meet up at Level 2, next to the canteen, in twenty minutes.”

“Got it.” Tossing off a salute, Epps marshalled Pauline and Greg and headed out.

Lennox left the chaos of Operations, heading down to the VIP quarters. While marginally better than the barracks, the presence of so many high-ranking brass meant that even officers were sharing accommodations, two- and three-star generals stuffed cheek by jowl into the few rooms available. Sam, Mikaela, and the Hughes had gotten lucky, and all been assigned to the same room--a subtle acknowledgement that the Air Force still wanted to keep their Autobot allies happy. It was a fair walk from Operations, which was located several levels below, but with the intercom system on the fritz, there was no other option. Lennox headed out, dodging several unlucky privates who had already been pressed into service as message runners.

Barracks 4C was far from palatial -- jammed at the end of a hallway and oddly shaped, just large enough to fit three bunks and a couple footlockers. Everyone was there, sitting together on one of the lower bunks. Sam jerked his head up as the door opened, nearly clunking his head on the upper bunk. “Want to tell us what’s going on?”

“I was hoping you could tell us,” Lennox admitted. The room was pretty quiet, but as the heavy door closed behind him, he could still hear a tinny version of that odd ringing tone. What the--?

Sam shook his head. “Got me. Blaster’s shown me a few of his tricks, but this … this is just weird.” He held up a set of ipod earbuds, the audio jack clearly unplugged--the source of the noise. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t need a power source. And it doesn’t sound like any kind of Cybertronian I’ve ever heard.”

Well, shit. Looked like they were about to get another worried delegation from Colorado Springs. Between this and the hearing aids, everyone out there was likely picking up this sound as well, no specialized equipment necessary.

“Parvati might know,” Anjali volunteered. She looked down to her folded hands as everyone turned towards her. “She was asking the robots about their wireless communication, kept talking about it. About harmonics and…. But I don’t -- and she’s --” Anjali swallowed heavily.

Lennox blew out a breath. “... okay. Nothing we can do but work with what we’ve got. Come on, let’s get together with the rest of the guys. Maybe with all of us in one place, we’ll have enough puzzle-pieces to try and figure this out. Epps is rounding up the others and grabbing us a conference room on the upper floor. You’d better stick close with me-- with the intercom down, we won’t be able to get ahold of you if you get turned around. Alright?”

Sam and Mikaela, at least, were pretty much accustomed by now to being directed around. Hogarth and Anjali were more hesitant, but nodded, and linked hands. Lennox shepherded them out without incident, and was soon glad for civilian clinginess: once past the main residential intersection, the base was barely organized chaos. Only military discipline kept the hallways even nominally clear as too many high-ranking officers sent too many sleep-deprived underlings out on poorly-defined tasks. None of said underlings apparently had any time to watch where they were going, either; Sam and Mikaela ended up flanking the elderly couple, steadying them against the rush of people. Lennox heard his name being called a couple of times; using the crowd as cover, he kept going, ignoring the summons. If it was actually important, they’d find him soon enough.

The upper floors were the busiest of all. Lennox checked three rooms filled with stony-faced generals and sweating aides and was rebuffed from two (at least someone had remembered to post guards outside classified meetings) before he found the right spot.

Epps had done pretty well, all things considered. The room he’d found was a concrete pillbox with heavily-inset windows, which was probably why no one else had taken it, given the radiation concerns, but the late afternoon sunlight was a welcome relief from all the cold fluorescent fixtures deeper in the complex. He’d also managed to assemble about twenty NEST personnel, which was a minor miracle. It was a good cross-section, looked like: a couple of the nerdy types, one of the security-cleared cleaning crew guys, and three additional wingsuit rangers.

In deference to their age, Lennox made sure that Hogarth and Anjali were seated in the best chairs on offer, then blew out a breath. “Alright, you all know your way around mecha and their weird s-- stuff better than anyone else on the planet. And you’ve all heard this.” He gestured to the quietly-ringing earbuds clenched in Sam’s fist. The tonal hum rose and fell, in sync with the sounds filtering in from the rest of the base. “Anyone got any ideas?”

“Disrupting communications is usually a prelude to attack,” offered Archer sourly. An engineer, he was their resident pessimist, forever convinced that anything new would blow up in their faces. Of course, with both Wheeljack and Que around, he was right more often than not.

“That’s a possibility, but I’ve been thinking,” Mikaela tapped her nails on the chipped, foldable tabletop. “If they were trying to jam our communications, why is the signal so intermittent? Sam, you remember that phone call, the time you were like ten minutes late for a conference with Optimus?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Sam winced. He’d practically had to belly-crawl to apologize to his then-girlfriend, which hadn’t really worked. She’d been the eighth, if he recalled correctly. Autobots: reason numero uno why he could never have nice things. “Uhm, I guess Jazz thought it wasn’t, uhm, important enough? Because he definitely interrupted.”

“Made your phone play ‘I’m too sexy’ for a solid hour,” Mikaela clarified. “You could hear it through your lunchbox, coat, and locker. Played even after you took the battery out. Point is, the invaders haven’t bothered jamming us so far, and while the Cybertronians probably *could*, they aren’t exactly the subtle types. So what if this is something that isn’t intentional? Like--a huge feedback burst of some kind?”

“You think it might be caused by the Autobots taking out one of those massive ships?”

“Maybe?” Mikaela raked a frustrated hand through her hair. “There’s just too much we don’t know--it could be *anything*.”

“Ben was saying that it sounded like skyskip,” Greg offered, frowning.

“Skyskip?”

Archer blew out a breath. “Yeah, when radio waves bounce off the atmosphere. Ben’s an old HAM radio enthusiast, so I’d maybe take that with a grain of salt. Besides which, I thought you only got one, maybe two bounces at best.”

“The repeats are getting quieter, though, like they’re tapering off. Could be skyskip,” Frank offered. He shrugged when glances turned to him. He might be responsible for emptying the garbage, but you didn’t get to be a janitor in a place like NEST without at least top secret clearance. “What? Nothing wrong with my ears. Listen.”

The room quieted down, but it was pretty clear -- those echoes were evening out, fading away with each repetition, leaving nothing but a low tonal hum.

“Hunh,” Sam said, frowning. “If they’re trying to jam our communications, whatever they’re using doesn’t seem to have much staying power.”

“Unless it happens again,” Archer said cynically.

“And if it doesn’t?”

“If it doesn’t, then we’re still as fucking clueless as when we started--sorry ma’am,” Frank said, ducking his head.

“Oh, I’ve heard worse, believe me,” Anjali said with a smile. “Besides, if there was ever a situation worth swearing about, I think this qualifies.” Hughes snorted, hiding a smile behind one hand.

“Well, all this is great, but we still don’t have a--” Epps stopped short, frowning, as his gaze was caught by something in the distance.

Eyes narrowed, Lennox glanced from Epps to the narrow window of the pillbox. Enough of the sky was visible to tell that the sun had started to set, the horizon starting to shade from blue to warmer colors … and high in the sky, over the darkened ridges of the Rockies, was a glint of silver. “What is it?” He pushed over to where Epps was squinting at the horizon. “An attack?” he asked, feeling everything sharpen under a spike of adrenalized attention. Had the Autobots failed, and now the invaders had come for them?

“Not sure,” Epps said, frowning. “What I wouldn’t give for satellite tracking right now … anyone got binoculars on them?” He glanced back, only to be met with shaking heads and helpless shrugs.

“Sorry boss,” Greg replied. “It’s not exactly something you carry around on base, yanno?”

“Fuck.” Epps turned back to the window, he and Lennox both peering out at the skyline while the others crowded behind them. The silvery specks grew larger, glinting golden, until their shapes could be made out. Drone-like in shape, they lacked the oversized wings of Air Force UAVs … but they were also nothing like the waves of sharp-edged black ships NEST had watched destroy cities and kill millions.

“Does anyone see that?” Anjali breathed, pointing. Lower in the sky this time, a trail of iridescence stretched along the horizon… long, alien contrails of silver that winked and flashed with light. They spread like fireflies across the sky, and Anjali reached out for her husband’s hand, holding it tight.

Mikaela gasped. “Oh--oh! They won, you guys!” She shoved her way forward, craning her neck for a better view.

Lennox let her shoulder her way past, stepping back. “The Autobots? How do you know?”

“Yes! I’d recognize those drones anywhere. Just look--remember after the first attack? How Ratchet had everyone decontaminate afterwards? The drones are spreading nanites! Optimus, and all the others--they won, and now they’re seeding the atmosphere, trying to keep the fallout contained, just like we planned!”

“You sure?” Lennox squinted into the radiant evening. The things were coming up from the southwest, and something did seem familiar about the various aircraft’ ungainly-looking oblong shape but unworldly maneuverability. They were certainly far smaller than the invaders had been.

 

“Huh.” The corner of Epps’ mouth turned up as the shower of nanites drifted across the sunset in gauzy silver curtains. “Well, this ain’t a flood and that ain’t a rainbow, but it’s good enough for me.”

 

*********

 

Optimus walked the scorched earth, armored pedes crunching amid the charred corpses of alien slaves with each slow step.

The sky seemed like something transported from another world, a sullen and boiling purple. The sun, filtered through soot-laden clouds, served only to lend the haze an unearthly lambency. Fallout hung heavy in the air, coating the battlefield in ash that plumed with each pedestep, that dulled to mourning drab the bright colors of Cybertronian plating.

With so much radiation in the air, sensors tended to misfire, triggered by stray gamma or beta charges. The neural net interpreted these signals as... afterimages, as spoked and branching lights, impossible transitory shapes, all flickering and decaying amid this slow rain of ruin.

And so, accompanied by ghosts, Optimus walked.

He had lost mecha before. Had lost footholds, bases, and even worlds to the Decepticons. He’d lost still more to allies that had proved to be anything but. Hundreds of thousands of vorns of war, after all, gave one a great deal of time for mistakes.

Now, here on Earth, those mistakes seemed closer than ever, a rasping weight of consequences against his protoform. Optimus was Prime, to the same degree as Megatron was Protector--and he had failed Cybertron just as completely as his brother. Choices lost to deepest memory archives rose before him again: his decision to listen to the assurances of the powerful over the voices of the powerless, his yielding to the false necessity of ritual over seeking uncomfortable truths, again and again, until all of the mecha that might have told him what was happening were silent.

Madness, in hindsight -- the easy madness of expedient choices, of pragmatic steps. How was it that only now he saw it for what it was? The war he’d co-authored consumed everything, in the end, devoured even Cybertron’s creator-mecha, until there had been nothing left to ensure their future; nothing but the Allspark.

And then, his last, most pragmatically monstrous step of all: to sacrifice the wellspring of life, turn it to service as a weapon to snuff out Megatron’s spark.

He had done it to preserve the humans, those ephemeral organics who never asked to be involved with Cybertron’s endless war, and Optimus found that he could not regret his choice, no matter how desperate, no matter how mad.

No matter, in the end, how futile.

For now, he had to face the consequences of what he had done … or rather, what he had failed to do. If the begrudging reports proved true, then the Decepticons, through Soundwave, had succeeded where all the efforts of the Autobots had not. Civilians, creator-mecha--Autobots and Decepticons alike had all been hidden away, protected from the ravages of war. And it had been Megatron, not Optimus, who had sued for peace in the end, who had offered up the first scrap of hope their people had seen in millennia. Megatron, who always planned for a dyad to succeed them, and for Cyberton’s resurrection -- albeit at Earth’s expense -- even when Optimus had abandoned any hope of return.

Surmounting a ridgeline, Optimus surveyed the desert floor below. Sluggish curls of smoke from burning brush and slagged metal still obscured the hellscape, littered as it was with gargantuan wreckage from the alien destroyers. The native sand had been entombed under the endless sea of debris, the local wildlife either dead or fled.

But the Earth still lived. The humans and all the other complex lifeforms that dwelt on this little world might have died by the millions, but billions more still lived. Humanity had been brave and indomitable, willing to fight to the end, and his Autobots had not broken faith, had stood with them. It would be easy to celebrate their victory, a triumph of life over enslavement and death.

Only …he knew now that courage wouldn’t have been enough. Hadn’t been enough. Earth still lived only because of the Decepticons. Only due to Megatron’s arrogance, so towering it could not permit a threat to himself or Cybertron to stand. And now, in the end, Optimus could not help but wonder how many other worlds might have lived, if he had simply allowed Megatron to have his way. Was a scorched wasteland better than a mad tyrant? Could even the tyrant been prevented, if Optimus had only listened? Or had Cybertron’s endless war been inevitable from the moment Prime and Protector had been separated?

Not for the first time, Optimus found his optics drawn to where the Allspark rested. The Cube hummed quietly to itself as the echoes of its genesis spread across the galaxy, still echoed faintly around the planet. Optimus could feel himself resonate with it, his deepest core of primal sensors registering its presence. All of the resident Cybertronians were drawn to the cube, travelling out to see it whenever they could take a moment between shifts -- a crescent of Autobots loosely gathered at a distance on one side, Decepticons on the other. For the first time, the space between the groups was filled not with desperate tension or hot lead, but rather… a sense of awe, an abiding wonder, as mech after mech came to see the icon of hope reborn.

A crunch of debris underpede announced the arrival of another mech, a steady presence among the drifting sensor glitches. “Ratchet,” Optimus acknowledged quietly.

The old medic heaved himself up to the crest of the rubble. He blew out a hard vent, muttered a few choice abuses for the heaped and inconveniently slippery dead, and went to stand beside his Prime. “Quite the sight, isn’t it.”

“Indeed.” Ash pattered against plating; sensor-ghosts twisted in the wind. It might be decades before the radiation began to recede in this corner of the world -- the nanites scouring the rest of the planet would eventually drift or migrate here, but until then, the fallout was an ever-present defense just as much as it was an inconvenience. The terms of the uneasy peace between Autobots and Decepticons were still shifting, but this was a demand on which Megatron would give no ground. Truthfully, Optimus understood his reasoning. The humans might be their allies, but the Allspark was too potent a power to leave unguarded. Besides, conceding the point had won him the leverage to requisition two of Megatron’s large troop transports, to use ferrying human refugees and supplies. It still felt strange, this heated bargaining and trading of competing interests. Discussions had almost broken down, dozens of times. And yet.... “One I did not believe I would ever see again. I do not know how Megatron contained it, unknowing, for so long.”

“Not sure he did. Or not all of it.” Ratchet squared his frame under Optimus’ surprised regard. “Wheeljack finally had time to get your flight mods stored away. He was worried they’d rust solid in that last storm, and -- well, anyway. Some of the code nodules checked missing.”

“Missing?”

“Mostly relating to power management. We knew that Jetfire’s mod was fairly inefficient. Tech that old usually is.” Ratchet chuffed a hard vent, shook his helm. Putting flight mods on a grounder was a chancy business, anyway, and given that the entire assemblage had been contrived by a half-starved, glitched old flightframe, using his own frame for parts… well. It was a minor miracle the haphazard thing worked at all, let alone as well as it did.

“You believe it might have been supporting the Allspark, as well as my flight.” Optimus shuttered his optics. He’d worn the flight tech during the battle with the Fallen, and then later, Megatron--it had given him the strength to defeat them both. At the time, he had thought it merely the power of a shuttlemech, Jetfire’s star-spanning engines lending their thrust to a frame far smaller and lighter than they had been designed for. Now … he could not help but wonder if perhaps that strength had come from something else. All too keenly now, he recalled that a fragment of the Allspark had been used to resurrect Jetfire. What else might that fragment have brought back from the Well?

“That’s… one of Wheeljack’s theories.” Ratchet shrugged. “One of several. Not that we have any way of knowing for certain.”

“Very true. I will confess that I am not eager to repeat the experience,” Optimus said drily. Carrying a dormant shard of the Allspark was one thing. Being flattened by the wash of that power, feeling it pull at the very threads of his spark, threatening to unmake him utterly--that had been honestly terrifying. It was a visceral reminder that the Allspark was neither good nor evil; it simply was.

“So.” Optics still on the Allspark, Ratchet carefully did not look at his Prime. “What happens now?”

“I … do not know,” Optimus confessed. Ratchet was one of his oldest friends, as both medic and companion. To him, at least, Optimus owed the truth. “We have tried to bargain with the Decepticons before, to establish some kind of detente--and always, in the end, we have failed. To hope for more, after so much death … am I a fool?”

“Maybe,” Ratchet said bluntly. “But something feels different about this one. Maybe it’s the Allspark, or the Giant. Maybe it’s the hatchlings. But maybe--just maybe--we can pull this off, and keep the peace. Rebuild Cybertron.” He sorted, vents pluming ash into the air. “‘Course, I’m a medic, and I’m not inclined give up on a mech until their spark has returned to the Well. So I might be a bit biased.” Ratchet glanced sidelong at Optimus.

“Perhaps,” Optimus allowed. “But still ….”

“Optimus.” Ratchet laid scuffed red digits on one arm, holding fast. “You’re our Prime--you fought for us, fought with us. You’ve led us through our darkest hours. We’ve all made mistakes along the way--none of us can bear to even begin to count the dead. But we’re still here. Still with you. That has to count for something.” He stopped, trying to find the words. “Slaggit--I’m no good at this. I guess I’m just trying to say … don’t give up on us. Not just yet.”

Ash-darkened silver faceplates turned downward, blue optics lambent in the gloom. “Never, old friend,” Optimus said, broad shoulders straightening under Ratchet’s regard. “I do not know if we are at the end of things, or another beginning. But I promise--I will not fail my people again.”

Ratchet snorted. “You’ve never failed us, Optimus. Not that I expect you to believe that.” He looked away, towards the Allspark. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. I’ll kick the rest of ‘em into line personally, if that’s what it takes to make this work.” Ratchet hmmed thoughtfully, his field sparking with amusement. "The Age of Ratchet. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Don't worry, I'll still keep you around as a figurehead. Deal?"

Optimus chuckled, faceplates shifting into a smile. “I see I have no choice. As you wish, old friend. Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who might be interested, 'The Humbling River' is what I used as soundtrack for most of this chapter. For the longest time I thought it was the quintessential Megatron song--now I'm starting to think it works for Optimus as well. https://youtu.be/4LALfYOMk6c 
> 
> And yes, as of 2016, there are only two female Rangers, who are still not allowed in combat. But this is our headcanon, and so my version of the U.S. military doesn't have their collective heads *quite* so far up their asses when it comes to gender integration. So there. :p


	34. Chapter 34

“Primus. I hate to say it, Optimus, but you look like you were run over by a tankframe. Twice,” Mirage remarked, trotting alongside Optimus’ far larger strides as the Decepticon transport lifted off behind them, raising a thick curtain of radioactive dust. With eight hundred thousand tons of clean, fresh-water ice safely sealed in the ship’s belly, the Rusted Tide moved ponderously, its pilot AI taking extra precautions for atmospheric flight. Abu Dhabi and Hound’s team were next on its list of destinations. “We do have enough solvent for showers, you know--”

Optimus smiled gently, a slow spread of ash-coated faceplates, despite the weariness in his tensors. “And I am glad to hear it. However, our local allies function on a shorter timescale than we. Mearing has been requesting updates for the last few joors.”

The embassy now resembled a makeshift wartime spaceport more than a diplomatic outpost.  All the resident mecha were hard at work, not only repairing the wounded and shoring up their battered defenses, but also manufacturing the hardware most needed, shipping crates off with a quick dusting of freshly-minted radiation consuming nanites, and coordinating two dozen ships and almost a hundred and twenty mecha around the planet. Mirage stepped nimbly in between two heavily-loaded mecha; Optimus waited until they had passed. “How does Jakarta look, anyway?”

Optimus followed the spy down into the embassy entrance. The main tunnel had been dug out, but all the compacted, molten debris meant that the floor in this area was significantly higher than it used to be. That was fine; big mecha like Optimus weren’t exactly spending a lot of time here, not when their strength was needed elsewhere to haul debris or supplies. “Hot Spot has Highway 2 clear from Bekasi to Bogor, and Streetwise’s teams are assembling manufacturing facilities as quickly as the shelters go up. The medical capacity has doubled. The residents should be ready to begin accepting refugees within the orn.”

“We can speed up the shelter construction, at least,” Mirage said, as they passed the barricaded east wing. Roughly cobbled-together sheets of lead, mostly melted down from the scrap piles left by the invaders, coated the rock walls, hardening the makeshift nursery against excessive radiation. The hatchlings had already been exposed to a significant dose of heavy radiation upon arrival, and their armor was still too thin to risk a second. The makeshift shielding might not be pretty, but it would get the job done. In the meantime Lockjaw, one of Starscream’s grounders, stood watch outside the entry, giving the Autobots a desultory growl as they strode by. “Wheeljack has the plastics-into-bricks compactor miniaturized to the point that we can distribute them to individual building sites. We have fifteen hundred clean units waiting on the next drone flight out, with pictorial instructions engraved on each box. The humans will still have to collect material, but they’ve proven themselves quite adept at that.”

“Hn,” Optimus acknowledged thoughtfully, passing a connection request to the local Decepticon networks. Mixmaster, he recalled, was processing several hundred mechanotons of polyethylene a day from the rendered-down frames of invaders. The material was of very little value on Cybertron, as the atmosphere would degrade it in less than a vorn, but perhaps it could be pelleted and shipped to supplement the scrap plastics available in human cities. Megatron would no doubt do his best to extort far more than the value of the raw materials out of the deal.

Still, Optimus didn’t mind overmuch. Haggling with Megatron over the relative worth of both mecha and materials--recycled plastics and alloys, in exchange for Autobot aid in making the captured Siggrath battleships spaceworthy-- might be frustrating, but was still better than crossing blades. Besides, Optimus would be a poor Prime indeed if he could not allow Megatron a few small victories, here and there. “Any word from the Constructicons?” he asked as they stepped into the main cavern.

“The usual grousing about how spackling together pathetic mud huts is beneath them, but sending Hoist’s team over seems to have done the trick,” Mirage remarked. “They’re now firmly into ‘anything you can do, we can do better’ mode. Though admittedly a few of the shelters they’re building might not be quite as, er, temporary as the humans expect.”

“Permanent or temporary, the humans will be glad to have them, I’m sure,” Optimus said. “And we need to take advantage of the Constructicons while we still can--they are just as needed, if not more so, on Cybertron. Once Megatron and his fleet leave, the Constructicons will go with them.” And should certain conditions be met, Prowl and a handful of other Autobots would follow. It had been too long since any of them had seen their homeworld, and even Megatron had been forced to acknowledge that warframes alone did not possess the skills necessary to reclaim Cybertron. Still, that did not mean the plan was well-liked. Quite a few Autobots--especially the Wreckers--continued to mutter darkly about the folly of trusting Decepticons.

“I’m surprised he’s stayed this long, honestly,” Mirage admitted. “The current stalemate cannot be to his advantage.”

“It is less of a stalemate, and more of an … ongoing negotiation,” Optimus reminded the saboteur. “We have all learned some hard lessons on this planet--Megatron perhaps more than most.” First a crippling crash-landing, then captured by humans. Finally freed after a vorn, only to find himself trapped into ignominious servitude to the Fallen, and then to Sentinel … small wonder Megatron had been so determined to inflict his revenge on this little organic world.

That rage was banked now, tempered by distance and their tenuous alliance, and--Optimus hoped--some fraction exorcised by the defeat of the Siggrath fleet. But it was not gone, and Optimus feared that one reason Megatron spent little time on the planet’s surface was because his ire had found a new target--Soundwave.

Still, much as Optimus might wish to intervene, there was little he could do. Better to focus on the problems in front of him. Primus knew there were enough of those.

As the holotank came into view, so did Mearing’s image, along with most of the rest of the Cabinet and a good smattering of the Joint Chiefs. Split into separate holoforms were a small group of representatives from the Security Council, mostly diplomats who had been trapped at the U.N. when the invasion occurred, and a scattering of world leaders or their representatives from other locations. Mearing’s only concession to weariness was hollowed eyes and a pinched mouth, but the rest of the assembled dignitaries were rumpled and unshaven, a testament to how out of their depth they were. This was the first truly global catastrophe humanity had ever faced, and one for which the nations of the world had been woefully unprepared.

Blaster had been juggling the humans’ tenuous network like a virtuoso, repairing or streamlining what he could, and using Sky Spy, ship comms, and even fellow Autobots as relays for coordinating relief efforts when human satellites were unavailable. Even then, the holotank images flickered and sputtered intermittently -- but they held, and that was all that mattered. While audio-only signals were easier, Optimus had learned that humans were far more inclined to trust visual input--and right now, the Autobots needed every last bit of trust they could get. So, for that matter, did the rest of the human communities scattered across the globe: Optimus idly counted at least four heated arguments going on between various human factions as he entered. Evidently, the diplomats had been using the open and stable channel to try to hash over their differences.

“Given the newest cholera outbreak -- haven’t been able to reach any of the -- now look, we had a deal -- you’re telling me you’re willing to let all those tankers sit there while -- I told you, the borders need to be -- the salmon shipments are going to rot while you --”

“Optimus,” Mearing’s steely gaze fixed on the new arrival. “So good of you to join us.”

There was a certain sense of the surreal in this as well, Optimus thought, easing his frame down onto the main seating platform.

Perhaps it was exhaustion. Optimus himself had been active for the two and a half orns since the invasion without so much as a defrag. He had spent joors at a time quietly kneeling in the Cube’s vast crater, modulating his field to approximate as best he could the old rituals, meant to keep the Allspark relatively inactive. Once the Cube seemed calm enough, Optimus had turned to everything else that needed to be done: setting up refining equipment, moving masses of compacted materials, loading drones with tons of supplies, and lending his strength where it was most needed across the globe. It was both like and unlike the constant maneuvering for wartime advantage that had consumed much of the past countless millennia… except now, apparently, he was going to mediate an argument over the edible flesh of certain aquatic creatures. Strange times, indeed. “Secretary Mearing. Have you slept at all since our last conversation?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Mearing replied, a wry smile softening her grim expression. “Or so they tell me. Thank you again for your help in re-establishing communications. Without that, we’d be even more useless than we usually are.”

“It is the least we could do,” Optimus replied graciously, inclining his helm in a nod.

“And your people are doing a helluva lot more than that,” she said wearily. “Even if certain Congresspeople are whinging about the fact that their respective piece of the U.S. isn’t getting the Autobot’s undivided attention in terms of aid.”

That comment sparked outrage from the other channel, tired diplomats bristling. “The United States is not the sole--”

“We have millions of citizens dead, and hundreds more dying every---”

“Did I say I agreed with them?” Mearing said, the words snapping through the air like a backhanded blow. “The Autobots will go where Optimus wants them to go--and right now, that will be places where they can help the most people at once. We’re all going to be digging a lot of graves when this is over, gentlemen. Let’s focus on saving who we can. Optimus, the Army Corps of Engineers Valley Division is finished with the dikes in Louisiana; where do you want them?”

In retrospect, Optimus should not have found himself surprised. Every time he arrived to scan wreckage for survivors, humans were already there with shovels, dogs, or even their own bare hands, ready to move what they could, doing what they could, despite their size. It was a strange mixture, this combination of bitter squabbling between various human factions on one hand, and noble heroism on another -- messy, rife with conflicting interests and moral shades of gray. And yet the alloy worked, in its awkward and halting way. Perhaps there were lessons the Autobots could draw from that. He ran down Red Alert’s list of triage items, considered the individuals present. “General Fanglong has a point, I believe: restoring power to the refrigerated warehouses in Tianjen would ease the food supply crisis in Beijing. Can your engineers install the twenty-gigawatt tidal generator grid we discussed?”

“Absolutely,” Mearing leaned forward, eyes keen.

“Now wait, Congress will never agree to send --”

“Have them ready to accompany Beachcomber at... 0925 tomorrow. Pickup will be in Memorial Stadium, Baton Rouge. The parts will be aboard the Poisoned Flail.” That would free up Bumblebee for-- “General Fanglong, can you spare enough textile manufacturing experts from Liaoning to repair the Amritsar Swadeshi woollen mills? The region has sufficient shelter and supplies to take eight hundred workers for three months. We will provide transportation, raw metals, and… four industrial 3D metal printers.” The atmospheric dust boded a hard winter for the north, according to Perceptor, even if the filters fitted to drones helped. Bringing the production of heavy blanketing back up to scale would ease Optimus’s fears greatly.

“I--” there came a noticeable pause. It would solve at least one of the general’s current problems, Optimus knew -- a ruined swath of apartments and a highly skilled population with nowhere to live -- and offered valuable equipment and potential leverage in the future with India, as well. But Fanglong’s superiors were already likely to be Very Unhappy at the prospect of potential American spies installing alien equipment in Tianjen, even if that equipment did power the region and save warehouses full of fish, and sending so many workers abroad was politically dangerous. The general glanced around the table, then squared his shoulders as practicality won over saving face. “…Very well. When do you want them?”

Optimus inclined his helm gravely. “Thursday at 1100, local time, at the Tianjen University of Sport athletic field.” He would have to bargain with Megatron for a few days’ longer use of the Fatal Consequence, but it would halve the projects needing Hoist’s personal attention in that area of India. Any mech could run dozens of simultaneous links to datapads in order to coordinate, instruct, and direct teams of humans -- but none of them could physically be in more than one place at a time. “Prime Minister Abbott, I believe you had concerns about Australia’s ability to export wheat?”

Abbott ran a hand through his thinning hair, and nodded. “Our harvests are looking good--this year, at least. But between the fuel shortages and the fact that most of our shipping terminals have been reduced to smoking piles of concrete rubble, we’ve got no way to get it out. We have far more than we need, but right now it’s just going to rot in the fields, unless you can help somehow. Same goes for the mutton and beef, most of our food exports, honestly.”

Optimus nodded thoughtfully. “Right now we must focus on the crops that will store most efficiently and provide the most organic calories. But grain is not difficult to transport.” Though it was messy; if he asked Skyfire or any of the airframes to assist, he would hear complaints about chaff in their seams for months. And then there was the simple shortage of those airframes: almost every mech with wings had a full flight schedule ferrying supplies either across the planet or up to orbiting Decepticon vessels. “The trans-Australian solar rail system is on our list of construction projects, and should be ready for use with the next harvest. For the present, however, please see that the South African and Korean merchant vessels are admitted into territorial waters. I believe we can arrange for line-of-sight bridging pads. We will need you to communicate with your farmers, and set up staging areas as close to the coasts as possible.”

Abbott looked a bit peevish at the proposal. “If you can teleport it to ships, then why not directly to the countries it needs to go to?”

“Long groundbridges require a great deal of power, as well as skilled mecha to install and operate, Prime Minister. Although food supplies are critical, doing as you suggest would co-opt most of our available resources, rendering us unable to provide aid elsewhere,” Optimus said smoothly, with no sign he was perturbed by the demand. “In addition, the locations most in need of food aid are also trying to rebuild their facilities. Staggering the shipments will give everyone time to install a more extensive grainery network.”

“We’re all in the same boat, Abbott,” Mearing snapped, with her usual blunt approach to diplomacy. “Don’t be an ass.”

Abbott shot a dark look at Mearing, then reluctantly nodded. “All right. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister. Please coordinate with--” Optimus began, only to be cut short by a sharply rising sound, like thumb tacks dragged over corrugated aluminum. The human delegates winced back from the holotank.

“eeeeeeEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeee!” Screeching in delight, a stubby bundle of brightly-colored plating dove through the entranceway and into the conference room, wingnubs waggling as he soared over the holotank.

Shouted orders in Cybertronian suddenly filled the room. “--fraggit, wait!”

“Come back!”

“Scrap, there he goes--Mirage, grab ‘im!” A pack of frantic grounders, Decepticon and Autobot alike, piled in after the tiny escapee, who screeched again and jinked upwards, antigravs lifting the little frame easily. Crankcase made a dive for the hatchling, only to miss, crashing into Blaster. Both of them hit the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs.

“What the--get off me!”

“There! Under the--no there, over the pile of--!”

“Cliff, you go right, I’ll go left, and we’ll--slag, he’s behind the console! Now we’ll never … wait, there he is!”

Cackling in glee, Decoy scampered straight up the metal console, talons latching onto tiny handholds with ease, just out of reach of the groundframes below. Then he launched himself again from his new perch, arrowing through the air with all the confidence of a budding Seeker, whipping between grasping digits. He dove out the door again, his triumphant ‘eeeeeeeeeee!’ ringing off the stone walls as he disappeared.

“Get back here, ya little scraplet!” The pack of frustrated grounders thundered out after him, engines revving in frustration. Relative quiet descended once more.

Looking down at the small collection of startled humans, Optimus fought the urge to facepalm. It was a quintessentially human gesture, and yet suddenly it seemed very appropriate. Instead he reset his vocalizer, and soldiered on. “Ah--yes. I apologize for the interruption … we have had our own difficulties to deal with as well.” Namely twenty-six hatchlings who couldn’t be readily transported without shielding to protect them from the radiation load outside the embassy -- and, more to the point, the angry and demanding Seeker contingent that came with them. Given Megatron’s restrictions on Seeker movement, as well as the security needs of the hatchlings, Starscream’s faction had few options. Optimus had been quick to offer accommodation and protection both, in exchange for a little extra mech-power. Now, of course, the Seekers had more or less taken the entire eastern side of the Embassy as their sovereign territory. Give a Seeker a wingtip….

“What--what the hell was *that*?” one of the U.N. representatives blurted, apparently too startled to remember to be diplomatic.

This was not the way Optimus would have chosen to introduce the hatchlings to the world. Or the ideal time, for that matter; the humans were still reeling from the Siggrath’s invasion. But the situation was what it was--all he could do was make the best of it. Optimus briefly contemplated deflecting; but relying on falsehoods was tricky at best, especially for long periods of time.

“That was Decoy, a hatchling -- a young member of our race,” he said evenly. Mearing’s face was inscrutable, a well-practiced blank mask. She had been briefed prior to the invasion on the hatchlings’ existence, as had the upper echelons of the U.S. government. The Iranians might know, though if so, it had remained a state secret. But the rest of the world had not yet been told--both for the hatchlings’ safety and that of the humans. Hatchlings were tough and adaptable, especially when compared to human offspring--but they were also far easier to capture and contain than an adult Cybertronian. And if a rogue human agency got the idea to do just that, to use the hatchlings for experimentation or for leverage--well, Seekers barely paid attention to ephemeral concepts such as ‘restraint’ or ‘proportionate response’ at the best of times, and Starscream was especially unlikely to be forgiving.

The human delegates stirred, many of them too tired to adequately conceal their alarm or surprise. “Arcee had a baby?” Someone whispered in Turkish, just loudly enough for the audio to pick up. “Did we know they were breeding?” an aide off-camera demanded in Italian. “--n’t think that Earth was even suitable for--”

The lone ambassador from Nepal leaned forward, cleared his throat politely. “Please accept our warmest congratulations,” he said, speaking up over the murmuring, “on your new arrival.”

Representatives blinked. “Indeed,” the diplomat from France added, “a child is a blessing. Congratulations.”

“Err, yes, that’s wonderful news -- very happy for you -- splendid to hear -- prayers are with you -- hoping the mother had a safe delivery -- “ diplomats and ambassadors hurried to offer their confused but mainly sincere-sounding congratulations. A distant ‘eeeee--’ and more muffled crashing echoed down the far corridor as little Decoy apparently evaded another attempt at capture. Optimus heaved a vent and turned down the gain on the embassy-side audio pickup.

“Thank you, all,” said Optimus, with a dignified incline of the helm. “They are precious to us. We are all striving to ensure that they are strong enough to return to Cybertron, as soon as it is safe for them to do so,” he said firmly, combining the subtle warning with an effort to address the humans’ primary concern. “Now, Ambassador Reyes. I believe you had concerns regarding a cholera outbreak in Tegucigalpa?”

“Them? Ah--” Ambassador Reyes blinked, shook his head, visibly reordering priorities. “Err -- yes. The El Cajon reservoir is now drained to repair the cracks -- this was done safely, without flooding, for which we thank you. But the city now lacks clean water. The hospital reports four hundred serious infections, and there are doubtless many more.”

“We can send antibiotics,” offered a Costa Rican aide who was now the country’s defacto representative at the UN. “But the roads, they are-- not good.”

Optimus nodded. “We can spare two drones to shuttle supplies, if you--”

 _//Incoming call from the Nemesis, Boss,//_ Blaster interrupted on comms, sounding impressively collected, given the background curses of the other grounders filtering through as they chased the rampaging hatchling down the corridor. _//Audio only.//_

 _//Put him through, please -- internal threads,//_ Optimus instructed, continuing to verbally coordinate relief efforts with the humans. In the background, there was an intermittent scritching sound. _//Megatron. To what do I owe the honor?//_

 _//Optimus.//_ The comm picked up a heavy creak, as if Megatron were leaning forward, the heavy plates of his armor rasping over one another. _//Mixmaster reports that you wish to requisition even more of our hard-won supplies -- in exchange for nothing more than distant and unlikely promises, no doubt.//_

The scritching was back. Something tapped Optimus’ pede. _//Err. Megatron. The plastics are--//_ Optimus chanced a glance away from the arguing humans, looking downward. Three tiny red optics glared back. _//--are not of great--//_

Brunt curled his sharp little talons possessively around a bolt of Optimus’ ankle joint. “My Bottobot!” the hatchling chirped, the simple binary glyphs truncated and abrupt. Coming from an adult warframe, they would have been rather menacing, which was probably the intended effect. Given the size of the warframe in question, however … not so much.

 _//Ah-- pardon me, Megatron. I seem to have--//_ The humans were staring at him now, and it occurred to Optimus that he had managed to lose the thread of their conversation. From their expressions, some kind of response from him was expected. He brought up his unarchived memory, searching through sensory logs for the last few moments of audiovisual data.

Crimson optics glittered as the hatchling bared his tiny dentae. “You captured now, Bottobot!” Barely as tall as Optimus’ pede, the little warframe tugged possessively at the edge of an articulated plate.

 _//Prime.//_ The comm now held an edge. Well, more of an edge.

A few fragments fell into place. “Indeed, Ambassador Reyes. I understand that clean water is a continuing concern -- for yourselves and for other countries represented here. Therefore--”

 _//Your fixation on those pathetic organics continues, I see. Obsess over your underclocked little pets on your own time, Prime,//_ Megatron snarled. _//If you want those supplies, you’d better --//_

“--Beachcomber would be more than happy to coordinate clean water response teams,” Optimus continued rather desperately, even as Brunt climbed on top of his pede and began wedging himself determinedly under the lower part of a shin-plate. Which put Optimus in an awkward position--there were quite a few crevices and sliding pieces in that part of his frame, and any movement could catch and crush delicate hatchling limbs. _//Megatron, cooperation with the humans’ recovery now will ensure that more Autobots are available for-- ah--//_

“I do not think we can wait that long--”

_//If you think you can fob me off with some manufactured rationales and a few--!//_

“GENTLEBEINGS.” For convenience, Optimus switched Megatron’s comm transmission to audible, the heavy rev of his engine underscoring his tone. “A moment, if you please. I seem to have been taken prisoner.” Ignoring the sputtered protests and noises of surprise, Optimus carefully kept his leg immobile, even as he leaned down and extended one hand to his tiny captor. “You are very strong, to capture such a big mech,” he told Brunt, layering the words with resonant admiration. “But it must be difficult to guard your prisoner from down there. Would you like to come up?”

Brunt regarded the blue-armored hand with suspicion, scarlet optics narrowed. “No trick, Bottobot!” he said, jabbing tiny talons threateningly at his captive.

“No. No tricks, I promise,” Optimus said, controlling the flicker of amusement in his field with the ease of long practice.

After a last wary glance around, Brunt scrambled into the proffered hand. “Up!” he demanded, and Optimus obliged, straightening slowly. Mildly relieved, he did not object when Brunt scrambled up his arm to claim a shoulder-perch, talons hooked possessively on the edge of a pauldron. Optimus looked belatedly back to the human contingent as the hatchling settled down. A few of the delegates wore expressions of surprise, or poorly concealed alarm. But most… despite all their burdens and fears, most were smiling, charmed in spite of themselves by the tiny mech.

The hatchling’s small field felt like a warm, buzzing ball against Optimus’ audial, colored with electromagnetic patterns wholly unique to the little mech. It had been… more than three thousand vorns, Optimus realized suddenly, since he’d encountered a new field, met a mech who wasn’t already familiar to him. Save of course for the hatchlings.

“If you are finished coddling Starscream’s spawn, I suggest we get back to business,” Megatron snapped.

The human diplomats stirred, eyes widening. “Is that--”

Optimus switched his counterpart back to comms for a moment -- just in time. _//I have no interest in speaking to your pet rats, Optimus--//_

This, Optimus realized, could very well end in disaster. Megatron had more than enough reason to hate his tormentors; the humans deeply resented the devastation Decepticons had wrought, and were equally unlikely to forgive. But Optimus knew this as well: he could not shield the humans from the galaxy. There would be other negotiations to come with other powerful and potentially-hostile races, probably many such discussions, for as long as humankind existed. Perhaps there was value in practicing now, with Optimus here to mediate. The humans might get quicker access to the supplies they needed by speaking directly to the Decepticons. And perhaps -- with enough training and equipment -- the humans could help the Cybertronians with their own labor shortages. It might take time, but what were a few vorns to their kind?

_//I understand your distaste, Megatron. However, the fact remains that the Autobots have promised our aid to Earth--and the sooner the humans are on the road to recovery, the more capacity we will have to turn our attention to other matters. Matters such as the Allspark … and Cybertron.//_

_//Your time with the humans has rendered you a soft-helmed fool, Optimus,//_ Megatron shot back. _//We need no help from your pathetic little band. Rust away on this planet, for all I care--we Decepticons will restore Cybertron and reclaim the future of our species without you.//_

 _//Of that, I have no doubt,//_ Optimus said neutrally, ignoring the insults. _//But doing so without Autobot scientists, engineers, and other Foundation-sparked mecha will take thousands of vorn, rather than merely hundreds. The humans are short-lived, and their needs simple. A small investment in raw materials and time will result in a far greater reward, in terms of Autobot assistance. Is that not worth negotiating over?//_

 _//Hn.//_ A long silence, measured in milliseconds -- an eternity for communications among their kind. _// I will listen to your yapping mammals, Optimus, but only as long as it amuses me to do so. I will have your assistance in the end, willing or no. //_

 _//So you will,//_ Optimus acknowledged. He would not hold the future hostage. _//But so too, you will see that this way is simpler, more effective.//_

_//Hn. That remains to be seen.//_

Optimus allowed himself a tiny smile at Megatron’s grudging acceptance. Any arrangements they came up with were going to be messy and slow, rife with conflicting interests, squabbling, and finger-pointing. But maybe, just maybe, this could work. If he truly believed that the humans were capable moral agents, entitled to self-determination, then did they not deserve this chance?

No doubt many of his Autobots would call him an irredeemable optimist for such ideas. Megatron most likely would call him something even worse. Still ... Protectors were sparked to deal with matters outside the empire, including foreign species, whether in war or in peace. Rightfully or wrongly, Optimus had not trusted Megatron’s handling of that role, just as Megatron had been skeptical of Optimus’ guidance of Cybertron. That schism had torn their world apart. Primus knew they each had been given more than enough cause to doubt the other; they both had made monumental mistakes. For the first time, Optimus wondered which had fuelled the war more: those errors, or the sucking undertow of suspicion, ending any attempts at reconciliation before they could ever begin.

Perhaps it was time for that to change. “Indeed,” said Optimus, addressing both channels. The little hatchling’s field buzzed with _happiness/determination/pride_ against his own, and he took from that some measure of encouragement. “Adequate shelters are a major concern. I am forwarding the schematics of a plastic brick and roofing tile compressor, as well as our planned distribution sites…”

 

******

 

_Earlier…_

 

For Soundwave, there was no such thing as darkness. Not anymore.

Even here, alone in the communication officer’s cramped quarters aboard the Nemesis, sensation drifted: color of a sort, wisping radiant from every console, every grid of circuitry buried within the walls, every mech who passed through the ship’s corridors. The ship’s native systems were more diffuse, a weave through the background, communication networks a crisply regulated blue flow, tangled crimson twists mapping out the power systems of engines and weaponry. Worry paced a stream of orange bits through the processor of the lone mech standing guard just outside. _\--fragging assignment what am I supposed to do if he wants to leave fragging nothing that’s what just follow him around like a useless crankshaft --_

Soundwave turned his attention back to the ship’s core relay nodes, checking them over, smoothing the flow of information. It was a simple task, numbing, repetitive, a means of occupying his processors as days passed and he remained confined. It was hardly sufficient to distract him, however, once Megatron boarded the ship. The dense golden nimbus of Megatron’s dyad coding was still too bright to observe directly, even after all this time, but he could map the direction of its attention, like the afterglow of a plasma blade. He withdrew, coiling senses inward, the code around him fading to an omnipresent haze.

“Rumble: maintain distance,” Soundwave spoke aloud.

A ventilation grille, set high on the wall above a console, gave a guilty rattle. _//Well yeah, boss, but we just wanted ta--//_

“Negative. Symbionts, will obey. Now.”

The grille huffed. But the subtle threads of his errant mechkin’s coding retreated.

Megatron’s approach felt like a plasmic stormfront, the pressure of it beating against Soundwave’s senses even as he tamped his abilities down. Soundwave tracked that dense, roiling field with a certain amount of trepidation. He had always known that in the end, it would come to this: his secrets laid bare at last, one way or another. He thought he had come to terms with Megatron’s probable fury and the uncertain future -- a tangle that even Ratbat could not penetrate -- that lay beyond it.

Apparently he had been wrong.

The hatchway hissed open, revealing Megatron’s backlit frame. The silver warframe gestured sharply, and Soundwave read the relief in the guard’s processors as he saluted and beat a hasty retreat. Removing potential witnesses? Limiting the nearby mecha whom Soundwave could influence? Soundwave did not, could not, know, the flare of Megatron’s powerful dyad field swamping any attempt to read his coding. The leader of the Decepticons stepped through, heavy pedes ringing against the decking with the finality of an executioner. Scarlet optics surveyed Soundwave from helm to pede.

“I must admit, Soundwave--I did not expect such a betrayal. Not from you.” The words were deceptively calm; the glassy surface of an endless sea, concealing the deadly riptides beneath. “Perhaps that was my first mistake.”

Soundwave straightened slowly, gathering together a fragile kind of dignity. It felt as worn as the battle-scarred plating that weighed down his chronicler frame: at once too thin for the dangers facing him--facing them all--and yet still heavier than he could bear. “Betrayal, not intended,” he replied, leaving each glyph unadorned, starkly honest.

“Was it not? It certainly seemed well-timed. I could have ended this war. Could have ended the Autobots once and for all, and Optimus with them. The Allspark was within my reach, and Starscream as well. Mine to use or destroy as I saw fit.” Megatron lifted a hand, palm upward as he curled clawed digits inward in illustration. “And then you turned on me.”

Contradicting Megatron was always a chancy proposition. Soundwave had always been careful to dole out any criticisms both sparingly and strategically--when it would do the cause the most good, or his enemies the most ill. Now … he no longer had that luxury.

“That power, still remains,” Soundwave pointed out neutrally. “Balance of power, still in Decepticon hands.”

“Is it?” The claws dropped, and Megatron began to pace around his third-in-command, a measured, pantherish stride, crimson optics never leaving Soundwave’s faceplates. “Or is it in your hands, Soundwave? What other secrets have you kept from me all these vorn?”

“Soundwave: Decepticon spymaster,” Soundwave replied, feeling the prickle of haptic sensors as Megatron passed behind him, the tremble of mass through the ship’s decking struts, the subtle hum of his tactical processor as it stirred and flashed threat scenarios through tertiary threads. Glory and destruction pressed upon him, incomprehensibly golden. He ignored all the input, staying carefully still. “Secrets, many. All of them, in service of Megatron and Decepticon cause.”

“So you say. And for millennia, I allowed you that privilege. Now, I find myself faced with a dilemma.” Megatron lashed out, blindingly fast, talons latching into the heavy armor of Soundwave’s chestplate, that covered the fragile docks beneath. The trithyllium plating there was the most reinforced armor on Soundwave’s frame, designed to withstand all but the heaviest artillery. Megatron, if he so chose, could crumple it like foil. “For you see, whom now do I trust to spy on my spymaster, the keeper of my secrets? I doubt even Bombshell could hack truth from your cortex. And a spymaster that I cannot trust, Soundwave--” those talons tightened, as Megatron’s voice dropped to a growl, “--is a *liability.*”

Soundwave rocked under the hooked and grasping force, all too keenly aware that Megatron could drag him off his pedes as easy as venting. The tips of those silver claws scored topcoat and nanite layers, peeling thin curls of metal from the gouges. But for all the warlord’s masked strength… his words impacted more deeply still. “Intention, never betrayal. Soundwave --” his core temperature was rising too fast, too many conflicting threads snarling his processors. “Soundwave, offers a full accounting, every action taken to move mecha, establish refuges. All plans, all reasons.”

Massive files, meticulously prepared and labeled for review in anticipation of just this moment -- in most cases, those core cortex files were the sole remaining evidence of how and where clusters of mecha had been hidden away. A few of his symbionts carried the knowledge, backups in the event that Soundwave’s memory banks became damaged. But there were no hard copies, no means of retrieving the information if both Soundwave and his symbionts were extinguished. And, in many cases, no means of rescuing the mecha Soundwave himself had stranded. It had been a safety measure, borne of both caution and dire need--one misstep, one thread of leaked information too early, and all his efforts would have been for nothing. But it left him, and those under his protection, horribly vulnerable. If Soundwave died here …..

Megatron sneered, a flash of brutally sharpened dentae. Hot auric rage, unappeased, seemed to curl around Soundwave, swamping his field. But the colors that truly cut deepest -- they tasted like disappointment. “Oh I believe you’ll give me far more than that, Soundwave.”

Soundwave shook his helm, a tiny movement, jerky and unwilled. He’d seen mecha pay a multitude of ways for failing Lord Megatron; prices paid in rank, energon, frame--or by life itself. He vented a hard gust of air, dumping waste heat and willing his systems back under control. “S-soundwave -- understands. Will submit to sanctions. Soundwave, would request--”

He couldn’t help the gasp as Megatron dragged him a little closer, effortless, purely by the hook of talons into the carrier’s thick chest armor. “Request. Even now, you dare presume to make demands of me.”

“--permission to gather the refugees.” Soundwave’s vocalizer clicked hard, tremors in his substructure glitching the old hardware. He stilled them, tried again. “Before.”

Megatron stilled, watching Soundwave through narrowed optics, as if to pick out every weakness in the frame under his talons. After a small eternity, he spoke. “Yes … you did promise me creator-mecha, did you not? It would hardly serve the Decepticon cause if I handed down your punishment, and thereby prevented their delivery.”

A trickle of relief threaded beneath the dread. “Soundwave: will--”

“No.” Megatron’s talons tightened. “You will do nothing, and go nowhere.” Cold satisfaction filtered through the crimson anger in that field. “Your symbionts will retrieve these supposed creator-mecha, and deliver them to me. *All* of your symbionts, without you. And if they fail ... then I will claim your spark as my price for your betrayal.”

Caught in Megatron’s grasp, Soundwave clenched his hands slowly, feeling the points of his talons scratch against the plating of his palms. They were battle talons now, his blunted slideable fingertips replaced long ago--so long that he no longer truly remembered what it felt like to stroke over Ravage’s plating without catching the armor seams. His bright sparks, precious beyond mere words, their lives wound around and through him like wires stitching a suture, holding everything he was together, demarking the very boundaries of self -- the coding that ran thick around him sharpened, brightened, everything he could access, all the ship and all the mecha that it held, he couldn’t --

_//Master.//_

That gentle, elegantly-woven glyph touched him, a caress. Laserbeak was too close to him, too close to this, he needed them away from the ship before -- _//We will go on this mission. All of us.//_

_//No we ain’t! W-what’re you looking at l-lemme see--//_

_//Bossbot’s in trouble -- lock and load, Frenzy!//_

_//Hey you guys are stepping on my wing and this is my hiding spot and-- oomph!//_

_//Enough.//_ Ravage’s sending was short, sharp and absolute. _//Master, we will do this.//_

Even subsumed as he was in the roil of Megatron’s anger, that massive field beating against his senses, Soundwave pulled together the scattered threads of his concentration, reaching across their bond. _//Negative. Danger, too great. Your lives, too precious to risk.//_ Even if he could find two or more separate vessels for them, a few missiles were all it would take to…. And the closest refugees were stellar systems away, he couldn’t--

 _//Master, we must do this. Megatron needs to see the truth of what we’ve done, and why it was necessary. Remember the future you saw, the future you showed us, so long ago?//_ Laserbeak replied, a whisper of affection and assurance, the weight and rush of history behind his words. _//That future is now. Can you not trust us to see this journey through?//_

 _//Trust us, Master,//_ Ravage added. _//We are Decepticons. We will do whatever it takes to ensure that we come back to you.//_

The comms took mere moments. “Soundwave…” clinging to the contact like a lifeline, the carrier bowed his helm before the inevitable. His vocalizer clicked, and he tried once more.

“Soundwave, acknowledges.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it only took us 8 months to write the final chapter of our crazy saga, but here it is! After six years, 'Giants of the Earth' is now complete--and as some readers may notice, we also snuck in the ending to 'Sound and Fury' in here as well. ^__^ Our heartfelt thanks to White Aster, who kept the story from going too far into the weeds, and stomped out all of our grammatical demons. And thank you to our readers, who kept the faith all this time ... it was a long and winding road, but I will always be proud of this story, and it wouldn't have been half as good without your ideas and encouragement!

There were no windows in his cell. No network ports, shielded or otherwise, that Soundwave could use. He needed none, as Megatron knew full well. But Soundwave kept his technopathy tightly leashed, resisting the temptation to reach out, to twine himself into the Nemesis’ AI, its sensor suites.

Resisting the temptation to watch his cohort disappear into the dark.

Blinded like this, the aches of the spark seemed magnified. The connection to his symbionts, forged through mutual need and adoration, woven deep over millennia, stretched fine, their minds and their sparks dimming with distance as their ship left the Nemesis behind.

For a time, some impressions filtered through that attenuated connection--nothing so coherent as words, but rather the muted flicker of their excitement, their concern and fear … not for themselves, but for him. He held it close, clinging to that gossamer thread and the faint sendings of _*lovefaithconcernlove*_ forwarded over a billion kliks of empty space. Then even that was stripped away, the instant the shuttle crossed through the spacebridge. The ship flashed across spacetime, spanning thousands of lightvorns in an instant, a distance too great for even the cohort-bond to bridge.

The absence left his processes sluggish and his tensors trembling. His calls reverberated in the echo chamber of his hollowed spark, and only the yearning -- the blistering, needful _want_ of them -- served as proof that Soundwave had not dreamed them all in madness. Surely, so keen a pain as this must be real.

Soundwave… Soundwave could go to them. It would be easy; truthfully, his imprisonment was a test more than punishment. He could unleash his technopathy, blind both guards and internal alarms alike. He could disable the force-wall that kept him prisoner, walk like a ghost through the halls of the Nemesis, past oblivious mecha. Soundwave could disappear into the darkness, the endless space between stars, never to be seen again.

But if he did so, it would betray everything they had built, everything he had risked his cohort time and time again to preserve. And … it would betray an oath given to his Lord High Protector at the start of their Great War, and never broken since.

Soundwave turned that thought over, feeling it resonate within his aching spark, an anchor, however slight, in the midst of his misery. With it came a certain meditative calm, a sense of rightness. Soundwave had accomplished all he had set out to do. He would not break faith.

In the end, it took only sixteen Earth-days before Megatron came for him.

Megatron’s approach was like seismic unrest, a pole shift, the press of that massive dyad field felt long before the Decepticon leader came within range of Soundwave’s audials. The blazing coils of rage had subsided, replaced by something colder, harder. The edge of a blade, perhaps, rather than a stormfront, a weapon honed to monomolecular sharpness and thirsting for energon.

Megatron entered the brig, and the forcefield holding Soundwave disappeared. Soundwave unlocked his joints from the stiffly standing position the close walls of the cell had forced him to adopt, lifting visored optics to meet his master’s burning scarlet gaze. “Lord Megatron.”

Megatron lifted one razored brow-ridge in disbelief. “You plan to continue to this facade, then?”

“Facade?” Soundwave echoed, honestly puzzled.

“This pretense of obedience,” Megatron spat. “You have played an exceedingly long game, Soundwave, but now we are at its end. Your deception has made this abundantly clear, if nothing else--I was never your master, but merely a convenient means.”

“Assumptions: incorrect.” Soundwave had never been so keenly aware of his truncated language output ability, his lack of skill as an orator, as now. The Lord High Protector’s focused displeasure, the sheer overwhelming physicality of the great warframe, had never seemed so imposing. “Actions taken, always in your service.”

“Pretty words--and yet, I find them hard to believe, considering the breathtaking scope of your chicanery,” Megatron shot back.

“Soundwave: a Decepticon--”

“Ah.” Lord Megatron’s talons cut the air in a harsh gesture as he approached, every step a tremble through the floorplates. Soundwave did not retreat, though not from any great exercise of valor -- in the close confines of the cell, the wall at his back, he had no ground to give. “And from that you took license to lie to me, did you?” Megatron snarled, jagged peaks of fury slipping past his frozen facade. “You dared go behind my back. Time and again you circumvented my orders, offered aid and refuge to my enemies. And you did so in secret, without my knowledge, placing your own goals above those of the Decepticon cause!” Taloned hands flexed, frigid silver coils -- Soundwave had come to believe they were the massive, infinitely-complex combat protocols of a Lord High Protector, for all he could not read them -- rising like teeth, like the grinding of great planes of ice as it calved away into an even-colder sea.

Megatron’s field was almost tangible, laced with rage and impending death, beating against Soundwave’s haptics. Soundwave… had only his own resolve, that steady core. Deliberately, Soundwave summoned the sense-memory that had driven his every action for millennia, the tangled vision of their future, and the only true path of salvation for their species.

He did not try to out-shout Megatron. He didn’t need to. “Soundwave: never lied.” His visored gaze met Megatron’s burning scarlet stare with no shred of shame or doubt. “Soundwave: never needed to.”

“And had you needed to?” As quickly as it had come, Megatron’s fury vanished, walled away once again with iron control. It was an effect Soundwave was familiar with, this unsettling blankness in so smothering a field, betraying nothing. Very experienced warframes fought in combat like this, in a silence that telegraphed none of their moves. Intimidating, as the void stretched between them -- as weighty as a decision all but made. Megatron’s silver talons flexed slowly, with the quiet rasp of plating over force multipliers. He shifted forward, and Soundwave had nowhere to retreat to. “I see.”

But those long, crushing talons had not yet found Soundwave’s spark, and there was, even yet, some hope in that. “Actions: necessary to prevent extinction. To preserve Cybertronian civilization.” Soundwave shook his helm minutely, reset his vocalizer. “Megatron: ordered disposal of Autobot Chroniclers, other prisoners. Their fate, of no immediate tactical importance. Chronicler-class Autobots, neutrals, a few others: placed in stasis-lock. The rest, executed.” Once, Soundwave had felt horror and regret at even the memory of his actions, the sacrifice of the many he’d so willingly carried out at the altar of the few. Now, at the end of uncountable millennia of war--he felt nothing at all. He had done what was required of him, of his place in the flow of history. He could only hope it was enough.

“You thought yourself to know the best interests, the tactics, of the Decepticon cause better than I did myself. That, Soundwave, was grave error indeed,” Megatron snarled. The heavy hydraulics within his frame hissed with tension, his massive frame looming so close that Soundwave could hear the components move. “Do you imagine that I will overlook your insolence as I do others’? Starscream’s duplicity amuses, overt as it is, but these schemes of yours, carried out in shadows -- no. You are far more dangerous. I will have you to heel, or extinguished by my hand. There is no other option.”

Soundwave bowed his helm before that cold, level judgment. “Soundwave, is, always has been, Megatron’s.” He steadied his vocalizer carefully, checking and rechecking the ever-glitchy junctions. He straightened his backplates, bearing up a fragile kind of dignity. “And... a Chronicler.” Duty and function; loyalty and purpose. It had to be possible to accommodate both, to preserve the past in the service of this Lord High Protector. And yet… if it were not… he couldn’t….

Megatron’s optics gleamed, and even Soundwave’s quick processors could not weigh nor measure all that hung in the balance, in this moment.

Megatron spoke. “Presuming -- and, Soundwave, it is a _very_ great presumption -- my willingness to indulge you, in this sole regard alone, exactly what information do you have to support your grandiose claims?”

“...a memory,” Soundwave said simply. “Of the future. Infinite choices, infinite outcomes--all leading to extinction. All save one.” He held his ground, faced Megatron’s scornful expression with equanimity. He hesitated. “This memory, can be shared.”

To almost any other mech, Soundwave’s offer would have been nothing but pure threat. Cable up to a technopath? Soundwave’s technopathy was deeply feared by any who had even an inkling of its true scope and extent, and he had been granted millennia to perfect its use. The Decepticon spymaster could slip into a Cybertronian cortex like an energon blade, could ghost past internal defenses and firewalls, excise archived memory, or even twist existing threads onto entirely new pathways. Most mecha had no defense, no possible counterattack against such a hack: to the rank and file’s way of thinking, a mech might as well just stick their helm into a razorsnake den and be done with it.

But there were mecha whom Soundwave’s technopathy could not touch. Two, to be precise--for Soundwave had learned well, over their long war, that as powerful as his technopathy was, it was useless against a Prime. Optimus’ core coding, auric gold and blinding in its fractalline purity, was impossible to touch. The dyad-spark of a Prime had a resilience far beyond that of an ordinary mech, and any changes Soundwave attempted, any attacks he tried to make, were simply … ignored. Rebuffing intrusions without intention or effort, unreadable and unknowable, the Prime’s mind was anchored by his great spark, and immutable in its courses.

And as Optimus was immune … so too was Megatron. The other half of the dyad, and despite the division that had broken Cybertronian civilization in two, Megatron was still Protector just as much Optimus was Prime, the whole of his being locked with the same unalterable, blinding code, one that ignored any attempts to suborn its Primal directives. Over the course of the war, Megatron had learned the limitations of Soundwave’s abilities better than any surviving Cybertronian, save the carrier’s own symbionts. In this, Soundwave could have hidden nothing.

So Megatron’s stony silence, Soundwave knew all too well, was not a hesitation borne of fear. The question hung between them -- what did it matter, these things Soundwave could show him? What could any justifications matter, when Soundwave had been chasing his own aims in secret for all this time, parallel to every one of Megatron’s?

Lord Megatron’s long, silver talons -- the thick, armor-crushing weapons forged to tear through Cybertronians -- lifted, and only the yet-sluggish responses of his aching joints, the press of his back panels against the rear wall of the cell, kept Soundwave from flinching. There was certainly nothing of courage in him, because this -- as Megatron laid his razored hand over the heavy plates of Soundwave’s chest, over the spin of his spark -- this could be where it ended. He’d seen this moment before, time and again, over the long course of the war; countless mecha destroyed at Megatron’s whim. He’d seen himself as well: visions of his own frame rent apart, down one or another of the winding courses of history, of truncated futures he had fought to avoid, and --

“Show me,” said Megatron.

It took Soundwave an embarrassingly long time--at least an astrosecond-- to realize that Megatron had decided not to snuff out his spark on the spot. That he had, in fact, given Soundwave an order. Inclining his helm, Soundwave unlimbered a primary cable, the finely pronged head transforming into an interface jack, one intended for the highest rate of data transfer. Wordlessly, he proffered the cable to Megatron.

Equally silent, scarlet gaze never wavering from Soundwave’s masked faceplates, Megatron parted the banded plating that spanned his flank, opening a secondary port. Taking hold of the datacable, he controlled its entry, talons flexing in unsubtle threat as the outer ring seated properly, tiny grippers reaching out to interlock with the waiting aperture.

Soundwave felt a subtle shiver ripple down his backstruts as his cilia flooded the port, the internal data-transfer architectures strange and deep, contact points tasting sharply of new metal. Perhaps they were new, or nearly so, after Megatron’s many reforgings, most recently by the Allspark itself. Almost blinded by the massive press of Megatron’s dyad field, Soundwave initiated handshake protocols with all the deference he could manage, navigating the fiercely aggressive firewalls and internal defenses with exquisite courtesy. He parted his own in tandem, clearing away guardian ICE to offer up a dual pathway channel, through which Megatron could direct any input. The intrusion of the great warframe’s transfer protocols felt like a blade slipping home in the sheath of his datascape, immense, implacable. It would have been painful if Soundwave had offered up any resistance at all.

Once permitted past Megatron’s outermost protocols, Soundwave allowed the Decepticon leader time to inspect the connection, offering up the authentications and datastamps of the archived memories as soon as they were demanded. Trying to embed a viral payload in a file transfer now would be suicide--but they both knew that not every assassin planned to survive past the completion of their mission. Megatron was not one to leave such things to chance.

Authentication verified, Megatron sent a final command. _//Proceed. Prove your loyalty--if you can.//_

Soundwave’s own reply was immediate. _//Soundwave: acknowledges.//_

 

**********

 

Megatron knew this place. Meticulously ordered, threads glowing with complicated subprocesses, the datascape lay studded with unusually dense orbs of memory, each richer in sensory experience than a mech would normally commit to hard drives. Even these were only copies, shadows of the all-consuming memories a symbiont could show a mech. There were none of those overwhelming archives connected to the network now. Good.

The landscape before him shifted, neatly, finely controlled, and one of the orbs shuffled forward. Hundreds upon thousands of spools of associated memory were packed within, gleaming and complex, linked deeply to a multitude of processing trees that coursed throughout the datascape. The node was unusually large -- perhaps the size of most mecha’s entire personality cores. The surface hazed over with interpreting protocols, drawing several of the string originations loose, offering them up for review. Megatron examined the selection. Then, untrusting, he prised loose a different strand from the orb, and let the events contained within unfold for his gaze.

_Ratbat scuttled and lept between rafters, panic beating through his thinned little frame, delicate parts rasping against one another where the edges were flaking, corroded. He was too slow, so slow--the crowd was roaring and the sounds underneath were more wet than metallic, a dull and terrible crunching through hydraulic conduits. The link to his Master was closed off, held shut with desperate strength from the other side; its very existence attenuated by the moment. Terror, flashes of deep blue plating, torn apart, tossed through the crowd. Horror as what was left of the frame came into view, a warframe’s talons digging into the spark chamber, achingly exposed through a tangle of ruined docking wafers. The blinding sapphire and silver flash of a chamber breach, devastating loss, so much pain--_

Megatron dropped the thread. _//What --//_ he wasn’t sure if there had been a time stamp, but he’d seen the Chronicler extinguished; he knew death too intimately to mistake it for anything else. _//Soundwave. When the Pit did that happen?//_

The unseen presence at his shoulder, diffident and watchful, shifted minutely. _//Events: real,//_ it said. _//Additionally: did not occur.//_

 _//One of your symbionts’ conjectured futures,//_ Megatron said, in belated realization. Of all his secrets, Megatron kept this one closest. The oracular visions Soundwave’s cassettes could channel had more than once saved the Decepticon cause from its downfall. For all their value however, the visions were often vague, a hazed and conflicting morass of probability. And they could take a great deal of time to obtain -- a resource in short supply on the battlefield. Over the course of the millenia, Megatron had learned to rely on these insights accordingly, learned to delimit and narrowly direct his queries. And he had trusted Soundwave’s judgment. It was a dependence that Megatron had always half-expected to regret.

But the visceral detail and the echoes of shared pain in this flash of precognition, carefully post-processed and archived in every aspect, had been so ... _vivid._ Why had Soundwave expended so much effort to save this, of all things?

 _//Affirmative,//_ Soundwave replied. _//This calculation, obtained early in schism, before technopathy, before war. Inquiry, was complex; many orns of processing devoted to threads of probability.//_ He hesitated. _//Outcome of each, almost inevitable.//_

 _//Almost. Hn.//_ Skepticism colored every aspect of that glyph. _//Such determinism, Soundwave; I did not expect it of you. You, more than most, have seen me bend fate to my will.//_

A shadow of nuanced emotion ghosted across the digital landscape. _//Soundwave: has seen it bent. And broken.//_ The presence at Megatron’s shoulder stirred, and the datascape shuffled another dense memory-node forward, offering up the meticulously organized threads. _//Soundwave and Ratbat: searched for future-potentials, for a side to join; found only three possible outcomes.//_

_//First outcome, this.//_

Wary of a trap, Megatron reached out for the presented threads--they spiralled open to him, unspooling into _/Soundwave had chosen the Senate, chosen to answer the Prime. Under the Prime, there was a chance, there was safety, even as Cybertron cracked in two--/_

The vision of Soundwave in Autobot colors, frame pared down, the Prime’s sigil bright on thinned chestplates was disorienting, *wrong* in a way that Megatron did not care to name. He fought the urge to snarl at the sight of Soundwave bending knee before Optimus, swearing fealty. Instead, he pulled the memory closer, countless vorns unspooling with moments of brilliant clarity and great passages of gray and glossed over time, all of it flickering by in astroseconds.

 _/--claims of unity could not hide the suspicion underneath. Soundwave had walked his own path, had played the odds, but he had waited too long. Bulkhead, Red Alert, countless familiar faceplates, old friends and enemies alike were all there, watching, waiting, whispering .../_ A blur of time, of dizzying, wrenching possibilities breaking apart around the edges, but the main pathways were clear enough to see. _/The Prime might offer clemency, but the Senate would not forget. Clinging to the scraps of their power, Senators held their grudges, withheld their favors. And Soundwave had been marked early on -- an agitator, a wildcard, not to be trusted. A mercenary only out for what he could get, unworthy of the Prime, unnecessary in the ranks--/_

Familiar battles passed before his optics, re-fought from new angles, repeated with differing variables, and Megatron watched as the war moved inexorably forward. Some victories remained, while others were twisted all out of recognition, but the end result was the same… regardless of the turnings of time, of uncountable changes large and small, Cybertron burned. Mecha died, piles of broken and lifeless frames scattered over a barren landscape, endless emptiness. The viewer turned back, picked new variables leading down new pathways, tried again, billions of attempts.

_/-death death and death, empty frames dangling limply over broken Tower spires. Nothing left of the Senate. No Towers, no government functionaries, no temple-factories. Only death and fighting and the Prime, faithful Optimus standing tall, a Warprime to stand against the fires.//_

Megatron did snarl, this time at the idea of a future -- no matter how thin this branch of possibility -- where he could be so thoroughly beaten, everything in his spark rebelling at the idea. Though there was a certain vindictive satisfaction, he found, in seeing Soundwave as a battered, pathetic excuse for an Autobot, rather than the strong and vicious Decepticon the mech had become. He was tempted to dismiss the entire thread as a useless exercise, a future that would never be; then the memory unfurled to its last measure.

_//At the terminus of a handful of twisting paths, Soundwave stood--loyal and steadfast until the end, until the Decepticons had been beaten, inch by taloned inch. His cohort lived, he had fulfilled his duty. And now … nothing remained. Cybertron was a cinder, its magnificence forgotten. Optimus and the surviving Autobots were too few in number, too thin in skills and knowledge outside of war, unable to ward away the circling of other warlike species. His cohort, a few others, had preserved what they could--but it wasn’t enough. The war had destroyed too much, and they watched as mecha fell victim to madness, to misadventure, to alien opportunism, those final few dozens or hundreds sparks guttering out like stars in the endless dark--/_

The thread slipped unnoticed from Megatron’s talons, all its lonely extinctions frosting the tips of its sparse branchings in ice. Even if Prime succeeded in all his goals, even if he managed to preserve a bare handful of creator-mecha -- as he had amongst the ‘best’ of these threads -- Cybertronians would cease to exist. Sooner or later.

Once, Megatron might have found amusement in this final fateful irony; vindication that Megatron’s vision had been the true one, all along. To see how ably Primus had selected his Prime, the architect of his children’s destruction -- pah! And yet… and yet ....

Megatron took a step back, spread the memory out before him, checking and rechecking his spylord’s conclusions. If the Autobots had won this decisive battle in Kalis early in the war… but no. He’d forgotten the units he himself had held in reserve. This rout, that assassination plot… he hesitated over an early Decepticon success, watching Soundwave’s capture from a doomed Tigrin installation. This branch ended in execution at the hands of Decepticon forces, as so many did. A thin fork saw Ratbat survive -- another few joors only, before the tiny symbiont was dragged from hiding.

 _//And of the futures beyond your death, beyond the end of your symbionts, you can see nothing,//_ Megatron mused, thinking. Perhaps there was a future amongst all these possibilities, one where Soundwave’s death had somehow… what? Saved the entire species? Megatron turned this image of Soundwave over in his processors, this weakened, pathetic figure and his ever-diminished mob. Was such a future likely… or even possible?

Silently, Soundwave offered the numbers, a dry accounting of each time across all the vagrancies of chance that the carrier made his final sacrifice, a final effort to preserve his own symbionts. He’d never succeeded, not for long. How could such a mech turn the tide of a battle, let alone the fate of a species?

Megatron snarled. _//You said there were three outcomes.//_

_//Another path, chosen. Second outcome, found.//_ The first memory-node was brought up for Megatron’s consideration once more. This time Megatron did not hesitate, reaching out, prying open a future of _/Against all odds, he was a Decepticon--/_

Megatron’s momentary satisfaction at this familiar future was short-lived. For this Soundwave was just as alien, just as wrong … but in an entirely different and disturbing way. In the place of a strong spymaster, ruthless in his omniscience, was a battered and cowering mech, without weapons, without technopathy. This incarnation of Soundwave was a pathetic creature indeed, one who had- _/- no place, no purpose, no function. Blocked on all sides by warframes, by established hierarchies and ingrained disdain, Soundwave was voiceless, powerless. He marshalled frantic lies, deft misdirections, clawed for respect and for power, for energon, summoning defiance against frontliners circling like Sharkticons…./_

This memory-node was far more convoluted. Death lay waiting at every turn, thread after thread revealing an unforgiving future with possibilities cut short. Any mistake, any miscalculated step led to _/-another dead end, turning and searching through path after path, brushing up against a sucking whirlpool of nonexistence before he could regain his bearings AGONY-PLEASE-MASTER!/_

Another thread, this one promising for a few hundred vorns -- _/Megatron’s strength, unparallelled power, the wash of heat across his faceplates as that tarnish-silvered cannon fired, Optimus forced back, retreating again and again as ancient libraries shattered under their pedes, fury beyond measure. And then--a misstep, a mistake. Razored talons closed cruelly around Soundwave’s helm, barbed tips piercing agonizingly deep. He looked up, an instant before the killing blow, and saw the visage of his own death--/_

Megatron’s. Those were his faceplates, corroded and broken, the face of a Lord High Protector of nothing and no one, jagged dentae bared in frustrated burgeoning madness. On every side, in possibility after possibility, there was nothing but death and more death--Soundwave’s own, those of his cassettes, even Megatron’s was there, the flare of the Allspark as it seared its way through his core, tearing him apart. On some paths, the Decepticons won. In others, the Autobots beat them back. Sometimes the tattered victors absorbed the remnants of the defeated side; in others, mecha were cast wholesale into the smelting pits. It didn’t matter, in the end. Death came for them, condemned them all in every thread, every possibility. All that changed was how long it took.

_Megatron terminated the shared memory, pushing the node away in revulsion. He knew what he was, what he had done. But to see it in such a way, the extinction of all his plans, the slow death of everything he had once tried to build…._

None of it would make a difference. Whether Megatron or Optimus emerged victorious, whether a thousand mecha survived the war or only one, there was no hope here.

The mecha currently still living -- Autobot or Decepticon, neutral or prisoner -- numbered fewer than four hundred. Megatron knew that. He’d known a risk existed, had believed that preserving a single creator-mech would preserve the future of their kind. He….

...might have been wrong. _//Enough. Show me the third.//_

Obedient, the memories shuffled for him once more, bringing him a new node. This one was heavily cross-referenced, charting out a course of events which had actually happened, a winding coil amidst all the many dead-ended threads. This, then, was the choice Soundwave had made. Megatron contemplated the proffered starting point. Within many of these memories, mecha cringed back from Soundwave in fear. Technopathy, then. _//And this?//_ He gestured to a twisted snarl of broken lines of probability, clustered heavily towards the beginning. A bare handful of threads emerged from that malestrom unscathed.

 _//Most: Soundwave’s failure to survive installation of technopathy,//_ the presence said, shuffling the portions to highlight them for review. _//Others: Soundwave’s attempts to join the Autobots.//_

Megatron carded his talons through some of these, feeling out the shape of them. He’d wondered, once, what had drawn a relatively fragile and weaponless carrier to this most unlikely of causes. Even hatred of the Senate’s decrees had not been enough for most carriers, who had joined the Autobots in great number. If Soundwave had used his abilities to full effect in service of the Prime, instead of Megatron -- contemptible as that thought was -- well. *This* Soundwave was certainly capable of turning a battle in his favor.

Except. The threads never made it to the first battle; not against Decepticon forces, at any rate. The Senate-funded programs, the ones that experimented with insidious Quintesson torture devices, found their missing technopathic module soon enough. They had been looking for it. And this time, they knew what a carrier could do with it--and what he couldn’t.

It took little enough to snap those threads, in truth. Megatron knew his lieutenant’s capabilities, but here -- he watched a single squad of carefully-equipped mecha pull Soundwave down like a pack of cyberhounds with a turbofox. There, imprisonment apart from his symbionts drove the carrier to rusting madness in just a few orns. Megatron paused over that outcome, considering.

 _//Soundwave: has become more than he once was,//_ the presence said calmly, acknowledging the present, laying it aside. _//As has Megatron.//_

 _//Hn.//_ Megatron took up the threads beyond those first death-fraught orns, when Soundwave had needed time, a chance to recover. The carrier had found both in the Decepticon ranks, and beyond that -- access to power. Megatron knew many of these events and memories already, had seen them before: the exposure of the spy network, burrowed deep within the Decepticon forces, the overwhelming first sight of Megatron himself in the light of newly technopathic senses.

Megatron skipped ahead. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of vorns of sheer processing effort had gone into mapping out this branch, overlaying events as they actually unfolded against this tenuous network of possibility beneath. Why? What, amidst all these deaths avoided, had been so important? Survival alone, as Megatron had just thoroughly seen, was irrelevant to the flow of history.

 _There._ Megatron’s optics narrowed. It was a routine event, merely orders to direct one shuttle out of thousands to slightly different coordinates, and should not have stood out -- save for the great number of calculations and entire processing architectures devoted to linked tasks. Soundwave flagged more events for him -- a few at first, then more, and then…. the sheer, overwhelming scope of the game Soundwave had played unfolded before his optics, magnitude upon magnitude.

_/Battles within battles; entire campaigns fought, and sometimes lost, for the sake of a handful of unremarkable prisoners; controlling operations to avoid one particular patch of bare rock, or wiping it from all recorded maps entirely; information passed into Autobot hands in exchange for just one mech/_

Distantly, Megatron heard the crunch as his talons clenched in Soundwave’s frame, blast-hardened armor crumpling. _//If you thought to engage my… sympathies, Soundwave -- you are going about it the wrong way. I know enough of what you’re capable. Show. Me. Why.//_

The datascape jerked around him, settled, reshuffled, and moved a node forward. It took entire earth-seconds for guardian protocols to peel away from this one, to fold back the quantum encryptions and protections. Within lay a single file. A map, spanning this and dozens of nearby galaxies, as complex and detailed as a shuttlemech’s navigation charts. But the names clustered across the map were not those of stars, nor systems, despite their great number. They were….

...chroniclers. Symbionts, to be precise, their name-glyphs glowing against the dark field. The file contained not just name-glyphs, but also locations, meticulous rankings of individuals and cohorts, skill-sets and specializations. It listed carriers--far fewer in number, but there nonetheless, attached to cohorts. Thousands of chroniclers, hidden away from the war through all these intricate machinations. And sprinkled within them, here and there, were dozens of creator-mecha, medics, a few others--but they were few and far between, almost lost amid the endless ranks of memory-keepers.

 _//You risked everything… for this?//_ Megatron didn’t even try to hide his rising indignation. _//For some great cumulation of … cassettes?//_

 _//Negative.//_ Soundwave’s reply was quick and certain. _//Soundwave: risked everything for what they carry.//_

A glimmering name-glyph brightened, swinging forward. _//Haspjig. Engineering: metallurgy, warframe builds and armor.//_

Another name-glyph was pulled forward. _//Outrigger. Architecture: factory-temples, city infrastructure, cityformer integration.//_

Another. _//Starsteel. History: interstellar contacts with non-Cybertronian species, military and diplomatic.//_

Name-glyph after name-glyph flashed by, almost too fast to read. _//Medicine. Literature. Chemistry. Theoretical mathematics. Physics. Sociology. Xenobiology. Music. Applied economics and management. Solar harvesting. Urban planning. Atmospheric terraforming. Legal precedent. Code repair. Cyberecology. Linguistics. Industrial engineering. Orbital plasma weaponry. Sparkware patterning. Aeronautical engineering. Civil--//_

The litany went on, endless ranked names, and what they preserved indelibly within their sparks. Until even Megatron could not hold on to his rage, in the face of what Soundwave had preserved … and then given to him.

Soundwave paused his endless list. In the dark echoed space of their connection, Megatron could feel the intensity of his focus, the significance, as his spymaster slid threads of future-memory through his grip. The sheaf of them became tenuous past a certain point, multitudinous with chance and uncertainties, entire nodes that denied all attempts at calculation. But here, only here, lay the glimpse of a future beyond the slow entropic dissolution of all the other branches. Fraught with images Megatron did not understand, there were struggles and trials, mecha blinking bright optics online for the first time, energon towers twisting up into the light of a warm golden sun. _//Sparkright: abides. Soundwave, is Chronicler and Decepticon. Mecha saved, to ensure Lord Megatron’s final victory, and the possibility of Cybertron’s rebirth.//_

Megatron drew a slow, heavy ventilation. Victory. A future… and a chance. _//You could have told me all this long ago.//_

Wordless weariness shaded the edges of the digital landscape around them. Leaning forward just slightly, heedless of the silver talons clawed deep into side plating, Soundwave rested his forehelm against the heavily-armored ridges of the warlord’s brow. Sheaves of frayed and broken tips stirred amongst all the fractured branches of possibility, glinting with images of silver talons, of symbionts sacrificed to the Fallen’s all-consuming hunger, their knowledge used to fuel his reign, of madness and incalculable odds, fear and spark-consuming regret.

 _//Perhaps,//_ the carrier said at last, quietly.

Perhaps Soundwave could have confessed all, and lived; but not in any future that saw his own symbionts survive. Before Megatron had witnessed the scope of Soundwave’s foreknowledge, he would have termed that impulse -- the refusal to consider the possibility of a future beyond the death of Soundwave’s symbionts -- nothing better than mercenary self-interest. A warframe knew that the fulcrum of history did not turn on the survival of a single mech, and with that knowledge, was willing to sacrifice his life to a greater cause. In the end, all mecha were expendable, even Megatron himself.

Yet Soundwave believed that victory was a barren concept, absent the preservation of the lessons of the past. And having seen all that Soundwave could show him, the death, the dissolution, Megatron... could not dismiss that belief. Not anymore.

Slowly, talons loosened from damaged plating, leaving behind great rents. It took only moments to disengage, the Soundwave’s primary cable recoiling as the connection dropped. Absent the overwhelming amount of data, the vivid colors and sensations of Soundwave’s shared memory, the cell suddenly seemed barren and empty. Which had been the point, and yet--

Megatron stepped backwards, out of the cell. The energon barrier snapped back into place, sizzling less than a mechanometer from Soundwave’s impassive faceplates. “A most compelling defense, Soundwave.” He half turned, scarlet optics narrowed and intent. “You and I both know your worth, but no mech is indispensable.”

Soundwave inclined his helm, field carefully controlled. “Soundwave, acknowledges.”

“When your cohort returns, I shall render my verdict.” Megatron turned away. After all, regardless of the outcome, he had time. Time to process all these revelations … and time to plan.

 

 

 

*********

_*18 months later*_

 

Endless fields of wheat surrounded the small hill, stretching in waves of gold and green underneath a late-summer blue sky. The hill itself held an unlikely collection of creatures: three Autobots, two Seekers, two hatchlings, several brushy trees, a collection of scattered rocks and buzzing insects … and one Giant.

Bumblebee stood watch at the base of the hill, scanning the horizon. Jazz and Hot Spot on the other hand were far more relaxed, at least superficially. They sprawled amid the tall grass, limbs and panels spread, the sun baking warmth into their photovoltaics.

“They’re late,” Bumblebee said, worried optics trained on a distant silver dot on the horizon. “The bridge network is still new--do you think something happened?”

“Nah,” Jazz said lazily, leaning back and lifting his visor up to the sun. “Hoist and the ‘Structies tested all the landbridges thoroughly--they’re solid. Ya know the whole network’s busy with shipments of food n’ such. Our crew’s just gotta wait their turn.”

For their part, Thundercracker and Hailstorm kept both their distance and their silence. They couldn’t care less about the outcome of this particular meeting, truth be told. However, the hatchlings had advanced in their development enough to become even more possessive, and accordingly the ‘ownership’ of the Giant was a highly-coveted prize. As a result Ruckus and Backfire -- the current victors in the hatchlings’ never-ending turf war--had loudly insisted upon coming along. Faced with a hatchling mini-revolt on his hands, Starscream finally lost his temper, and ordered Thundercracker to ‘get them in the air and out of my sight’.

Under the watchful eye of the two Seekers, Ruckus and Backfire were making the most of their newfound freedom, scampering over the Giant’s broad shoulders and helm and occasionally launching themselves into the air after passing insects or birds, with limited success. Directed flight was difficult to manage without engine-mounts, and antigravs could only take them so far, but that didn’t stop the hatchlings from trying.

“Ah, there we go,” Hot Spot said, brushing grass off his shoulders. “Blades says they’re on their way. Should be here in a few minutes.” Faceplates shifting into a smile, he looked over at the Giant. Dwarfing the trees in size, even seated, the Giant was gazing off into the distance, watching a tiny speck on the horizon grow larger.

“Ho-garth here soon,” he said in satisfaction, looking down at Hot Spot for confirmation. The Protectobot leader nodded, reaching over to pat gray plating in reassurance.

“Yep,” Jazz remarked sardonically, not moving from his relaxed sprawl. “Hopefully they get here before Bumblebee busts a gasket. Calm down, m’mech--it’s only been a few Earth-months. You act like Sam’s been gone for a whole vorn.”

“Stifle it, Jazz. I just want to make sure he and Mikaela are okay, is all. A year is a long time for a human,” Bumblebee retorted, his optics never leaving the approaching aircraft. It was close enough now that they could just hear the distinctive whup-whup of a helo’s blades; Blades was making good time.

Jazz regarded the sun through his spread fingers. “Admit it; you just want to scan the protoform.”

“That isn’t the only -- fine. Maybe that’s part of it. But a *year*, Jazz. An entire percent of their likely existences!”

“Hn.” Idly, Jazz scratched at a seam of one gauntlet, easing the itching as his newly resident population of radiation-consuming nanites found a few more millisieverts -- motes of dust that’d gotten into his substructure, no doubt. “Then they’ll have many adventures to tell you about. And you, them.”

Bumblebee waved broadly. He couldn’t pick up heat signatures yet, as well-shielded as Blades’ frame was, but if they were looking out through the clearplate… was that a wave in return, or just a trick of the light? He couldn’t tell.

“Play cave?” The Giant asked solicitously, lifting his big hands, cupped like a clamshell, with just a small space to climb through. Squealing, Ruckus and Backfire left off their shoving match atop the Giant’s helm and made beelines for the shadowy hollow, kicking at one another midair. The hiding spot was quite the trophy; so defensible! And fighting over it would keep them out of the air while Blades landed, which might have been the point.

Casting jaded optics at the fast-approaching heloformer, Thundercracker and Hailstorm lazily sauntered down from the rolling hilltop as the noise picked up, the set of their wings showing quite clearly how thoroughly unimpressed they were. Blades descended over the newly-cleared rise, the wind of his rotors flattening the grasses. He gave the area a good scan for hidden rocks or uneven ground, flaps flexing -- and then came to earth with scarcely so much as a bump.

Rotors spinning idly down, Blades threw open his rolling side doors. “Bumblebee!” Sam called. He was the first to jump out, grinning and waving, then turned to give Mr. Hughes a hand down. Hughes’ daughter, Parvati, soon followed, finger-combing flyaway black hair out of her eyes.

Mikaela was the last to disembark, giving Blades a pat as she did so. “Thank you for the ride,” she told him. “I was afraid we might have to make it out here on foot!”

“No need to worry,” Blades said in reply, transforming upward as soon as his passengers were safely clear. “The Autobot Express is always at the service of our favorite humans.” He grinned, human-style, faceplates shifting upwards.

Lending her arm to her father, Parvati and Hogarth picked their way down the hill to where the Giant was sitting. “Hi, Giant,” Hogarth said, smiling broadly. He reached out to pat one upturned foot fondly. “How are you doing? The Autobots keeping you busy?”

The Giant smiled in his slow way, eyes glowing. “Ho-garth. Much work to do--I help fix. Watch ba-bies, keep them safe.” He lowered his cupped hands slightly so that the humans could see, and Ruckus stopped his shoving match with Backfire, who’d managed to lay claim to the coveted ‘cave’. Two sets of bright red optics peeped over the blunt gray digits as the hatchlings assessed the new arrivals.

“Oh,” Parvati gasped, spying them. “Look at them--they’re beautiful!” She’d seen recently-declassified video footage and pictures, but those tended to be of poor quality, both because it was difficult to get the hatchlings to slow down long enough for a good shot, and due to an abundance of overprotective Decepticons. This was the first time any of them had been able to see any of the hatchlings in person--the radiation load surrounding the embassy had kept even official envoys away until just recently. “What are their names?” she asked, looking fearlessly up at a looming Thundercracker.

The blue Seeker shifted his weight. Poorly-disguised fear was more what he was used to from humans; this kind of unabashed admiration was something new. And while the hatchlings *were* beautiful examples of Starscream’s craft, he certainly hadn’t expected an organic, of all things, to understand that. “Ruckus and Backfire,” he finally answered, deigning to use English and indicating each hatchling in turn, who flared plating and wingnubs, drawing themselves up proudly. Then curiosity got the better of them, and both hatchlings launched themselves into the air, gliding downwards to land on the Giant’s bended knee-joint and peer at the humans from closer range.

“Remem-ber human rule?” the Giant asked them.

“Soft skin, soft touch,” Ruckus immediately replied, proud to show off what he knew. “No claws, no hurt.”

“No leaks. Leaks bad,” Backfire added.

“They’re so smart already!” Parvati exclaimed, watching them. “Look at those complex little faceplates. And you both have antigravs?”

Sam, on the other hand, was a bit more wary. “Wow--I didn’t realize they were quite that big already,” he remarked to Bumblebee. “I figured they’d be more, y’know, Wheelie’s size or something.”

Ruckus and Backfire both were over four feet tall, a head shorter than most of the assembled humans, but far bulkier. Ruckus was now on the ground and inspecting Parvati’s palm curiously, pressing a talon-tip cautiously to the surface. “Soft touch?”

“Yes, well done,” Parvati said, smiling at him. “My turn?”

“Just say ‘ouch!’ right away if any of the little chip-snatchers press or grab too hard. They’ve been taught that means to back off,” Jazz added. “An’ don’t be shy about it--we’ve given them the numbers on how much pressure it takes ta pierce human skin, but soft tissue damage is a lot harder ta quantify for the little guys.”

“We definitely don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Bumblebee added, glancing between the assembled humans and the Decepticon hatchling-guardians looming nearby.

“We’ll all be careful,” Parvati said. “Mikaela, come meet Ruckus and Backfire! They’re amazing.”

“Well, they certainly seem a lot more self-sufficient than human babies, that’s for sure,” Mikaela remarked, wandering over to inspect and be inspected in turn. She glanced warily up at Thundercracker and Hailstorm. Unlike Parvati, she’d knew how terrifying it was to face a Seeker in the middle of a firefight--that first battle in Mission City still featured prominently in her nightmares. Still, Bumblebee had been fighting these mecha for hundreds of thousands of years; if he could trust the Decepticons this much, she supposed she could follow his lead.

“How old are they?” she asked, and watched with a certain amount of wariness as Hailstorm blurted a line of Cybertronian, the small plates along his collar fairings momentarily lifting into a whorl of sharp edges. Then he flattened each of them with jerky little movements. Thundercracker spat something back. Tellingly, the Autobots refrained from translating.

“Oneyteen!” Ruckus said, holding up a foreleg equipped with four rather pointy talons. Backfire nodded firmly, showing Mikaela his own hand, which had seven. “Yāzdah,” he agreed, just in time to get Ruckus’ fist in his faceplates.

“No fighting,” the Giant said serenely, using two fingers to carefully separate the hissing combatants, as Mikaela -- prudently, she thought -- stepped back. Parvati and Hogarth, on the other hand, looked enchanted.

“Ah, they’re about eleven years,” said Bumblebee, rubbing the back of his helm. “Give or take.”

“It’s so clever of you to put that construction together,” Parvati told Ruckus, who cocked his head. Giving up the fight as a lost cause, at least so long as there was a Giant hand in his way, he trundled back over to her and pushed himself up on his stubby back legs to regard her, almost eye to eye. “The rest of that number range in english puts the last number first, doesn’t it? I think it’s strange as well.”

“Decimal is weak-feeble numeral system!” Backfire proclaimed, trying to climb the Giant’s hand. Finding that his announcement didn’t elicit a helpful response, and that the fingers kept moving out from under him, he plonked his stout little aft down in the grass to reconsider his current predicament. Backfire scritched his abdominal plating with a taloned pede, processing furiously.

“And you’re so finely-crafted, too,” Parvati said. “Look at the way all of those little plates fit with the others -- is it alright if I touch you?”

That set off another round of beeping and squealing from the Seekers standing over them. Oblivious to his guardians’ debate, Ruckus just ducked and butted his helm up under Parvati’s hand.

Bumblebee shifted his weight a little. “So, err, speaking of hatchlings, Mikaela -- uhm. How have you been?”

“Good,” Mikaela said, smiling up. “And you can quit dancing around the subject; I know I’m pregnant. And yes, you can scan him.”

“Her,” Bumblebee said, softly. It was such a tiny little bundle of gradually-differentiating extensions, no larger than the last joint of a human’s thumb, still almost shapeless and massed with migrating cells, and still--the very thought that, well, that one of his humans had made this, it was--beautiful. Old guardian protocols stirred, urging him to scoop his human up, hide her away someplace more secure than just--just out here, where she could fall or a cosmic ray could disrupt her concentration, or well, anything. It took a lot to keep his reaction down to a happy, human-style smile.

“Really? You can tell this early?” Mikaela said, placing a hand over her abdomen.

“Yup--DNA markers don’t lie. You’ve got a beautiful little girlspark developin’ there,” Jazz said, visor glowing. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks! I must admit, this isn’t the time I would have chosen to have a baby, what with the invasion and all the problems since. But sometimes accidents can give you something you never knew you wanted until you had it,” Mikaela said, reaching out to pat Bumblebee’s plating. “You guys included.”

“Problems--can I--what can I bring you?” Bumblebee asked, suddenly fretful. Developing sparks needed more resources, he hadn’t even thought--

“No, no--I mean, we’re working hard, just like everyone, but thanks to you guys and the new landbridge networks, there’s enough food to go around. Rebuilding the big stuff is going to take time, and we’re still rationing--well, just about everything, including power and water. But we’re managing.” She glanced around. “Honestly, we’ve got it better than most, what with Sam and I working so closely with you guys and NEST. At least I don’t have to run for one of the new shelters every time a radiation alert goes out. Not when we’re working in hardened military bases most of the time.”

“The fallout levels in the atmosphere should drop considerably over the next five years,” Hot Spot put in. “Once they do, the alerts shouldn’t be necessary, and we can begin to work on a more thorough decontamination of the soil and the oceans.” The Autobots had been forced to prioritize air and freshwater decontamination for the sake of their human allies--once the worst of that was out of the way, however, they could afford to refocus their efforts on the biosphere as a whole.

“Oh believe me, I’m not complaining! Without you guys, and even the Decepticons--well, we’d all be dying from radiation sickness and facing years of nuclear winter instead of--well, this,” Mikaela said, waving a hand at the golden fields around them, the clear blue sky above.

“Yeah, despite the constant bitching, I think even the politicians realize we owe you guys more than we can ever repay,” Sam said. He added cynically, “‘Course, don’t expect them to remember that the next time they come to the negotiating table.”

“Well, that’s why we have Optimus,” Hot Spot said serenely. “If he can come to terms with Megatron, I do not think a few misbehaving human politicians will cause him too much difficulty.”

“So the truce--it’s holding, then?” Hogarth asked. He glanced up at the Seekers, then over at the hatchlings, who were currently engaged in a game of patty cake with Parvati. A rather advanced form of patty cake, at that, since the hatchlings’ inhuman speed and perfect recall soon meant that they were inventing complex patterns of their own on the fly, little taloned hands moving almost too fast to see, screeching off-kilter harmonic interpretations of the song that went with the motions.

“So far,” Bumblebee said, glancing over at the watching Seekers. “It hasn’t been all energon and rust sticks, of course. There’s been a lot of grumbling and dirty tricks on both sides--especially when we’ve got different factions being forced to work together on the same projects.” And there were some mecha that neither side trusted to restrain themselves even that much--the Wreckers being a prime example. Thank Primus there was more than enough work to keep all of them busy on different parts of the planet.

“Moun-tain quiet,” the Giant added. “No baby-song yet.”

“Yeah, and Optimus n’ Beachcomber are working overtime to try and keep it that way,” Jazz said. “Having the Allspark out in the open like that is enough to give any mech the heebie-jeebies. I don’t know how our big friend here manages to hang around it as much as he does.”

“So it’s going to stay on Earth, then?” Hogarth asked, brows knitting together in concern.

Jazz shook his head. “Nah--too dangerous. Last thing we want is the Allspark deciding to get all busy with some cyberforming. We’re working with the ‘Cons to get it back to Cybertron. It’s jus’ gonna take a little while. We gotta make sure we can transport it safely, which means building an Ark, and then we gotta make sure there’s someplace ready to receive it once it gets there.” If this plan of Megatron’s didn’t work… well, their best bet might be to dig up what remained of Iacon’s temple-factory, and attempt to reverse-engineer what they could. Unfortunately, doing that would add… centuries, probably, to any rebuilding efforts, and might not work, at that.

“How is Cybertron?” Sam asked, looking over at Jazz. It’s taken some time to get used to the idea of the planet as, well, his friends’ home, rather than a monstrous deathstar hanging over their heads. “I mean, have you been back at all?”

“Sure have,” Jazz nodded. “Good to see the old girl, even she does need a lot of spit and polish.” It had been good to go home after so long--even though it had been hard to see what little was left of it. No beauty, and precious little energon … just endless filum of devastation and death. But the humans didn’t need to hear about that. Not now.

“I can’t wait until you both can come visit,” Bumblebee added. “Even though it’s--well, it’s going to take a lot of work. Just digging enough places out of the rubble to store some supplies, adding a bit of roof to keep the rain off, getting some local networks up, has been a pretty big job. Everything seems to take longer than it should. But we’ll get there.”

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had something to build, not just tear down,” Hot Spot said quietly, looking over the assembled mecha and humans, large and small. Ruckus and Backfire were showing off their flying skills for their new--and very appreciative--audience, zooming all the way up to the top of the Giant’s helm and then spiraling back down again. Parvarti looked torn between delight and the urge to take notes in order to map out equations for the physical laws that the round little hatchlings ignored so easily; Hogarth just beamed.

“I want to hear all about it,” Mikaela smiled, finding a likely-looking patch of grass near Bumblebee and sprawling out in the sun, so that she could look at the ships in slow orbit overhead as well as her friend. “I heard there’s an Earth embassy planned for Simfur--is it really true?”

“Haven’t been there myself yet, but--”

Sam made his way over to where Jazz lounged in the tall grass, watching the whole scene with gently-lit visor. “It’s really good to see you all again. I’m glad you got to come back.”

“Oh, we’ll be around. Crews’ll be rotated on and off Cybertron every month or two, now that the spacebridge is stable from this end.”

“About that--” Sam hesitated. “I don’t mean to bring up politics, know you’ve been dealing with it pretty much nonstop. The thing is, a bunch of the Joint Chiefs assumed that once the bridge was operational, that meant Megatron would head back as well.” The jump to Sol’s orbit had been a one-way affair for most of the past year; the nearest spacebridge out was in the Centauri cluster, a solid month of flight at the speeds a Cybertronian ship could attain. Now, supplies and mecha could move between worlds with little more than a day lost in transit. If the truce continued to hold, it would speed the recovery of both planets immeasurably.

“Mn.” Jazz glanced up. The Nemesis was geosynchronous with Nevada, but from its orbit thirty miles over the Earth, it was visible from much of North America if the light was just right. The captured Siggrath ships had largely been returned to Cybertron--those few still spaceworthy, anyway. But the Nemesis never departed its vigil. “He’s waitin’, Prime thinks.”

“For the Allspark?” Sam asked, a little worried.

Jazz tilted his hand from side to side. “Maybe. But I think he’s waitin’ on something else. Hope, maybe.”

“Hope, huh?” Sam sat down, resting his back against the gray mech’s sun-warmed plating. “Something tells me you’ve all been waiting a long time for that.”

Jazz laughed softly, watching Parvati help her father to a seat on top of the Giant’s foot--and then hurry to tow a very distressed Ruckus, whose antigravs seemed to have gotten stuck, back to solid ground. The squealing little mech was floating just a tiny bit too high for her to reach, but thinking fast, Parvati unbuckled her belt, pulled it loose, and tossed up one end. Ruckus snagged it with his talons, but didn’t pull himself downward--instead he seemed happy to stay where he was, and let his new pet human tow him around like a rather spiky balloon. “Yeah, gotta admit, I’m not quite sure what to believe anymore. But you know what? I’ll take it.” Peace … he’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

Backfire, never one to miss an opening, was now gleefully dive-bombing his floating sibling-creation, screeching in delight as Ruckus hissed and swiped at him. Thundercracker shifted his weight and grumbled something in Cybertronian--Sam and Mikaela tensed, but neither the Giant nor any of the Autobots seemed concerned.

Suddenly Blades stiffened, turning to face west. The two Seekers weren’t far behind, helms lifting and folded wings flexing as their sensor suites focused on the sky. “Hot Spot--did you hear that?”

“I did,” Hot Spot said, sitting up, his field shifting into slow resonances of _joy/welcome/curiosity_. Trust Groove to get the word so quickly--he must have been the second mech after Blaster to know. He looked over at Thundercracker. “Is that the one?”

“What is it?” Mikaela asked, suddenly worried. Bumblebee wasn’t acting like they were in danger, but between the Decepticons and the Siggrath, she’d become a lot more paranoid about unexpected arrivals.

The navy blue Decepticon gave the Protectobot a narrow-opticked glare, but Hot Spot appeared to be immune to Thundercracker’s ire. After a moment, he nodded. “I believe so.”

“One what, guys?” Sam repeated, hovering worriedly next to Hogarth and Parvati. “Is this more trouble?”

“Mebbe. But if so, it’s the good kind.” Jazz’s visor flashed blue in the sunlight as he lifted a hand, pointing at a section of sky. “According to Blaster, they should be visible in just another minute or so …yep, there.” A tiny dot of light was growing in size just beyond that pointing digit, turning into a familiar burning streak across the sky--a ship making re-entry. It was impossible for any of the humans to tell, of course, but the broadcast ID was clear to all the mecha within range: it was the _Dark Matter_.

“Who is it?” Parvati asked.

“Soundwave’s bunch of troublemakers … looks like they actually managed to pull it off. They’re bringing back the mecha they promised.” Which technically wasn’t something the Autobots were supposed to know about, but what kind of special ops agent would Jazz be if he couldn’t figure out the reason behind the sudden absence of Soundwave’s spies? “Looks like they’re not wasting any time, either. They’re headin’ straight for the embassy.” Where Megatron and Optimus both were at the moment, though it was even odds whether they were having another standoff over resource allotments or double-teaming the human politicians in their own uniquely intimidating version of ‘good cop, bad cop’.

"So Soundwave wasn’t lying,” Sam said, his eyes on that streak of light. “He really did manage to hide creator-mecha away from both sides?”

“And chronicler-mecha,” Hot Spot reminded them. “Who are just as important, if we ever hope to rebuild.”

Bumblebee shook his head. “It seems so impossible,” he said, blue optics also on the sky. After all the destroyed worlds, the battles and betrayals, after millennia of fighting that left Cyberton a cinder and their species at the brink of extinction … and now this. A spark of hope, of a future, on this little organic world--a spark made possible, at least in part, by Decepticons. And not just them, but the humans as well, and an ancient, long-lost Giant who became their friend. “Who would have ever thought things would turn out this way?”

“None of us, that’s for certain,” Jazz said. Unlike the others, his optics weren’t on the ship. Instead they were on the hatchlings, still buzzing about and squabbling, oblivious to their elders’ concerns, and the Giant, who was watching them all, human and mecha, with almost tangible affection. “Guess we were too set in our ways. Needed a new player in the game to shake things up a bit.” He let his field flare with _warmth/gratitude_. “Thank you, big guy,” he told the Giant. “Without you and Hughes, I’m thinkin’ we never would have gotten this far.”

“Ho-garth teach, long ago. I am not a gun,” the Giant said, each word as weighted and immovable as a mountain. “I protect. Not hurt. Auto-bots, De-cepti-cons, all change. They choose to pro-tect.” He tilted his helm, looking down at them. “We are not guns. Not anymore.”

“No. Not anymore,” Bumblebee agreed, feeling a weight lift from his frame. Even warframes wanted something more than endless war. If enough of the Decepticons felt the same way … then maybe this truce would last. Maybe they all--Autobots, Decepticons, humans, even the Giant--finally had a future after all.


End file.
